


A Brush and A Comb and A Mirror and Blade

by JET_Playin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mystery, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Child Abuse, Post-Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JET_Playin/pseuds/JET_Playin
Summary: Someone is robbing both wizarding and muggle shops. It's up to Harry, Ron and, of all people, Draco to solve the case.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LLAP115](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LLAP115/gifts).



> Omfg, it's finally here!!! This fic has been a long time coming! Many profuse thanks Timothys_Boxers and Elly_dk for helping me work out kinks when I was stuck, and to David, Maesterchill, and CSigilon for being wonderful betas! And to LLAP115, without whom I would never have gotten this far with my writing. Thank you so much, Tami! I hope you like it ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
> 
> So, I'll be posting one chapter a day, but this fic is finished, I'm just cruel :p
> 
> Disclaimer:I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters or places related to the Harry Potter franchise.

We all know how the most captivating stories begin: in a dark room, with a mysterious figure doing something of questionable legality. 

Well, the room was dark. And, as such, so was the figure. But there was no question of legality. Stealing is against the law, even I knew that. 

So, it’s clichéd, I know, and it’s well past the beginning of my own story, which I have long since forgotten, but it’s where this story begins nonetheless. In a dark, musty room that felt much smaller than it was.

In reality, it was a small warehouse; small by warehouse standards, at any rate. It felt small because of the haphazardly jumbled merchandise that seemed to close the space, especially in the dark. It was a charity shop, a place where people send an unwanted or outdated belonging when they harbour enough nostalgia to cringe at the idea of binning it, but not enough to keep it. And a place where those with too little money to buy what they want go to buy whatever they can get.

I'd learned quite a bit in my short life. Watching through windows and hedges, around corners and tables, listening to what I was close enough to hear and building an understanding of the world from what little I understood. At the time, I may not have had a formal education, as it were, but I knew plenty. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in that building, after hours, in the dark. Yet, there I was, with no say in the matter. I felt compelled, urged to do this thing, with little desire to fight the urge.

Tripping over some unknown object in the dark, I cursed and spun around, peering toward the glass panelled door and the only source of light in the room. It was narrow, not like the large Tesco buildings in the busier areas of London, and what meagre light filtered through the grimy glass was obscured by the figure standing just inside, silhouetted by the trickle of light. Although I couldn’t see her face, I understood her displeasure; it coursed through me, reminding me of my task, sending prickling fear singing down my spine. Hurry up, she seemed to say, though she didn’t speak. She never spoke in those quiet, sacred moments.

I turned back to the room, loathe to upset her further. She had quite the temper and I knew from experience what would happen if I dawdled. Picking carefully around the merchandise, I made my way to the back of the shop. We’d cased the building the day before, and a few days before that, so I would know where to go, where my objective lay. Trailing a hand along one shelf to keep my balance and remain oriented, I walked down the aisle, careful to keep my footsteps light. When I felt the shelf end, I moved to the other side of the aisle, arms outstretched until they knocked against smooth wood. That was my goal. Well, above that was my goal.

I lifted my arms, the smooth wood digging into my ribs and aching stomach as I leaned over the baby's cot, until I felt the sharp sickle of metal, heard the clinking of stars and moons as they collided. As carefully as I could, I detached the mobile and tucked it under my arm, the spider web of wooden beams flush against my side, then made my way back to the front of the shop. When I reached her side, she yanked the thing from my grasp, wrapped cold fingers around my wrist, and spun on her heel, dragging me along into the sickening darkness.

 


	2. Chapter One

It was a fine morning in late spring that found Draco Malfoy on the streets of Muggle London, sipping his coffee and staring up at the small shop front. Over the years since Hogwarts, he had become accustomed to the din and bustle of Muggle cities, so could easily ignore the automobiles rushing by behind him. They were of little importance, after all, in the face of the puzzle occupying his mind. 

Because the events of the previous months, as the Muggle media had so aptly deemed them, were impossible. The CCTV showed no one entering or leaving. The forensic evidence was irrelevant, except to link the events, because the perpetrator was not listed in any government database. And, aside from the first - this shop, in particular - the items stolen were… odd. 

It really didn't take all that much to come to the realisation Draco had come to. Because these break-ins were impossible. 

For Muggles. 

With one last sip from the paper cup, Draco dropped it into a nearby bin, tucked his hands into his pockets, and turned on his heel. He stopped to remove the disillusionment charm before striding into the Ministry, bypassing his normal route to the laboratory on the sixth floor, and headed straight to the office of Gawain Robards on floor two. 

He nodded to the man's secretary, gave a sharp knock on the door to his office, and stepped back to wait, arranging his features into a hard mask for the impending encounter. Before long, a barked “What?” could be heard, so Draco turned the handle, marching into the office. 

“Malfoy. Don't you have evidence to analyse?”

“Of course, sir, but this is matter of some importance. Not to worry, it is relevant to my current case.”

Sweeping his robes aside, he perched himself on the edge of Robards’ stiff, wooden guest chairs. The man did not like guests, Draco learned. Him, least of all. Armed with that knowledge, he crossed one leg over the other and stared until Robards deemed the easiest route was to request elaboration. 

“Well? What is it?” he finally growled, tossing his quill to the desk and folding his arms over his rotund chest. 

“You see, sir,” he began, settling into his seat, “I have discovered that there is a case under investigation at Scotland Yard that I'm certain is tied to our robbery on Diagon Alley.”

“You aren't an Auror, Malfoy.”

“I am aware, sir. However, I am a citizen of the world and, as such, am privy to the goings on within it. And, as I am working on this case personally, I could not help but see the similarities between the media's reporting and my case.”

Robards narrowed his eyes, frowned, but conceded. As he should. The moniker of Head Auror meant he couldn't ignore a potential wizarding crime in his jurisdiction. 

“Fine,” he said, picking up his quill to indicate Draco's dismissal. “I'll send a team of Aurors to investigate. In the meantime, I need you in your lab, so get there.”

“Yes, sir,” Draco intoned with a mocking salute. 

Rising, he left the office and did just that, avoiding the office of one Harry Potter when he heard raucous laughter coming from the closed door. He'd see Potter and Weasley soon enough. 

-

“Lunch,” Ron called, striding through the open door, into the office he and Harry shared. Without looking up, Harry grunted his reply. His report was nearly done and, regardless of the appetising scents wafting from the takeaway bag Ron carried, he intended to finish it. “Well isn’t that a fine way to greet your best mate? Who came bearing lunch, mind you.”

“I suppose you’d rather I fetched food while you filled out the Sullivan report, would you?” Harry challenged, finishing with a flourish and sending Ron a cheeky grin. “Now, what is it today?”

“Today,” he began, offering a brown paper bag, dotted with grease spots, “for your eating pleasure, we have-”

“Wait, don’t tell me. Fish and chips?”

“Fish and chips!” Ron confirmed, bowing low and holding the bag out to Harry.

“Is the Leaky Cauldron the only place you know how to find?”

“‘Course not! Today’s fish and chips come to you courtesy of that little Muggle shop, down the road.”

Taking the bag, Harry rolled his eyes. “You have a problem, mate.”

“I do,” Ron sighed, throwing himself into the chair beside the desk. “I don’t know anyone, personally, who can fry up a good fish and chips, so I always have to pay for it.”

“Yep,” Harry snorted. “That’s the problem.” Digging into the bag, he fished out one newspaper-wrapped packet and tossed it to Ron before dumping his own onto the desk, crumpling the bag, and binning it. The headline covering his food, nearly illegible through the grease, shouted “Third Impossible Break-In This Month.” Shaking his head, Harry peeled it back and picked up a chip. 

“You know, Robards is starting to complain about my handwriting…” he teased. “You may find yourself under direct orders to fill out the reports, yourself.”

“Nah,” Ron said, stuffing chips into his mouth. Chewing messily, he insisted, “he wouldn’t do that. Knows my handwriting is worse than yours.”

“Your handwriting isn’t worse than mine,” Harry said, frowning.

“Sure, it is. Just ask ‘Mione. She never asks me to do the shopping list anymore.” Lounging in his chair with a wink, Ron swallowed and shoved three more chips into his mouth, grinning.

“You’re a twat.” Chuckling, Harry tore off a bit of fish, swiping it through the vinegar soaking the bottom of his newspaper, and brought it to his lips, then paused when he glanced past Ron. Standing in the doorway of the office was Draco Malfoy, his arms folded over his chest and frowning disapprovingly as he looked down his long, straight nose at them. “Hello gorgeous,” he said, grinning when Draco frowned. 

“I couldn’t have put it better, myself, Potter,” he drawled, as if Harry hadn't spoken to him directly. Sweeping into the room, he bent over the desk, snagged one of Harry’s chips - one that looked particularly crispy and delicious - and popped it into his mouth.

“Oi!” Ron cried, but Harry just watched Draco chew the stolen chip, his pale lips closed tightly, before swallowing and bending to select another.

Taking a delicate bite, this time, he spoke around it, completely breaking that posh, well-mannered persona most people still believed he possessed. “I’ve come to collect the two of you,” he said. “Robards wants to see us in his office. New case.”

“He couldn’t just send the file over, like he always does?” Ron scoffed, gesturing wildly with the chips in his fingers.

“No, Weaselbee, he couldn’t. This one’s more complicated.”

“Well,” Harry sighed, pushing to his feet. “What are we waiting for?” He smiled when Draco stole another chip, then gestured toward the door and waited for Ron to rise, as well, before following.

“Do you have to do that?” Ron hissed, falling back to walk alongside him.

“Do what?” Harry asked, all innocence. 

“Don't give me that, you know what. It's creepy.”

“No creepier than what you call Hermione,” he countered, affecting a shudder. 

“Yes, it is, Harry. I'm married to Hermione! You aren't even dating him.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“And it's Malfoy!” His voice rose some, and he darted a glance at Draco. If he could hear them, he gave no indication, so Ron continued. “The git who made our lives hell for-”

Harry tuned him out. This wasn't the first time he'd heard the lecture and it likely wouldn't be the last. Frankly, the arguments just didn't carry the same weight they used to. For one, Ron liked Draco just fine. They still bickered, but Harry happened to know that there was no one Ron preferred to play against in chess and the two frequently teamed up to bemoan Harry's less than enthusiastic opinions on fish and chips. 

“And you let him eat off your plate? You don't let anyone do that!” 

“That wasn't a plate,” Harry argued, smirking. 

“That's not the point, Harry.” Ron glowered. 

“He’s clearly missed lunch.” Harry conceded the point, scowling at the blond head a few paces ahead of them. “Again.”

“Well, that’s his own fault, isn’t it? He could prise himself away from his bloody potions for ten minutes to eat something.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t.” A fact Harry worried about more often than he might like.

“I’m just saying, he’s a grown man, Harry.” When he turned his attention back to Ron, he was also scowling at the back of Draco’s head, though Harry was sure his thoughts weren’t as kind. “He should be taking care of himself. It isn’t your job to feed him, and you wouldn’t bother if it wasn’t for your obsessive need to help people.”

“Oh, not you, too,” Harry groaned.

Everyone seemed to think he had some kind of hero complex. Sure, he enjoyed helping people, but what was wrong with that? Okay, so Draco was free because Harry testified on his behalf, but he didn’t feel the need to free any legitimate Death Eaters, did he? Deep down, he’d always known that Draco wasn’t evil, wasn’t in control of his actions during the war. He was always a pointy git, but that was another matter. 

“Besides, you know full well it's more than that.” They reached Robards office and Harry paused outside, whispering as Draco entered.

Ron flinched, his face paling, slightly. “Oh, don't I know it. What do you see in that skinny twat? He's not even ga-”

“Potter! Weasley! Get in here, I haven’t got all day!” Robards boomed. 

Harry glared at Ron as they hurried through the door, taking their seats on either side of a sniggering Draco. 

“Sorry sir,” Harry offered, tilting his head apologetically. He lifted one leg to prop his ankle over the opposite knee and threw an arm over the back of Draco's chair, angling his body closer. “What’s this about?”

Robards scowled at him, but didn't comment on the informal pose. “Someone is using magic to rob Muggle shops.” he began, jumping right into Head Auror mode. “Scotland Yard just had their third break-in, no evidence of forced entry, no clues as to why, and all that was stolen was an old mobile.” Shuffling through a stack of parchment, he pushed a sheet across the desk, hard gaze landing on each man in turn. Ron lifted it first, scanned the contents, then passed it to Draco.

“A mobile?” Harry asked. Frowning, he leaned closer to read over Draco's shoulder. “Like a phone?” 

“A mobile, Potter,” Draco sneered, withdrawing a couple of inches. “The device you hang above a baby's cot?” 

Harry flashed a grin, sure Ron was rolling his eyes. “Oh, right.”

“What would anyone want with all of this?” Ron asked.

“That’s irrelevant,” Robards barked. “What’s important is to catch the thief and produce a believable cover story for the break-ins. I’m sending you in as MI5-”

“This isn’t MI5’s jurisdiction,” Draco interrupted, passing the parchment to Harry, careful to avoid physical contact. “The Muggles won’t believe us.”

Digging out another sheet of parchment, Robards handed one to each of them. “You’re cleared to use a Confundus, if necessary, but your cover story should suffice.”

Harry accepted the new parchment before turning to the other, keeping one ear on the conversation as Robards explained that they’d be meeting and working with a detective from Scotland Yard. The parchment was a list of items taken from each crime, dated over the past few months:

Antique necklace, gold chain, ruby pendant set in gold, circa 2000, valued at 500 pounds. 

Comb and brush set, silver, circa 1927, valued at 200 pounds. 

Antique tea set, china, gold filigree, circa 1890, valued at 650 pounds. 

Book of fairy tales, antique, circa 1550, inscribed, valued at 200,000 galleons. 

Wooden mobile, metal stars and moons, valued at 50 pounds. 

“Hang on,” Harry interrupted. “The robbery at Flourish and Blotts was connected to this?”

“We have to assume so, yes.”

“Who’s working that case? Why is it being passed to us?” 

“I’m working that case,” Draco answered. He seemed poised to continue, but frowned when Robards lifted a hand.

“I felt you and Weasley were best suited for this case,” he explained. “With your combined backgrounds, you two have the most experience with Muggles. Malfoy will assist you with the fori-scenic evidence-”

“Forensic, sir,” Draco corrected him, earning a scowl from Robards and startling a laugh from Ron. Harry smirked, catching a sly smile curling Draco’s lips.

He could afford to be cocky about it; nearly a year before, Draco had returned to England, brandishing glowing recommendations from the DMLE in France. Aurors there spoke highly of him, suggesting that the British Ministry would do well to hire him and put his skills to use. Originally, Harry doubted the validity of those skills; surely, if they knew Draco Malfoy, they wouldn’t endorse him. But, he'd learned better. Since beginning his post, Draco quickly built a reputation. He was cold, clinical, and kept to himself but, during their first case together, he'd proved himself worthy of those recommendations, solving Harry’s case nearly single-handedly with little more than a strand of hair and a fingerprint.

Forensics, he called it. He explained that Muggles had been using forensic evidence - hair, blood, fingerprints - for decades and it was past time the wizarding world followed suit. He developed his own potions to read bodily fluids for DNA and a databank, not unlike the trace on underaged witches and wizards, that linked fingerprints to the magical signatures of known offenders, both during his two years with the French Ministry. Granted, that list was still miniscule due to the manner in which data was collected, but he implemented a process of collecting fingerprints and blood samples, as well as recording the magical signatures of all suspects the DMLE arrested in France, and was in the process of instilling the same programme in England.

“Enough. Just, put a stop to this. Now, get out of my office.”

Chuckling, they rose and filed out of the office. The sense of camaraderie wasn’t lost on Harry. Even Ron was sliding amused glances at Draco. When they reached the corridor that branched, taking them in different directions, Draco paused, still smiling.

“I need to gather my supplies. You finish your lunch and I’ll meet you in the atrium in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Ron groaned, but Harry nodded, lifting a hand to Draco's shoulder.

“We’ll see you, then.”

-

Scowling, Draco took another bite of the sandwich he didn’t want.

That wasn’t exactly true. He did want it - he was half starved after missing lunch, again, and it was delicious - but it irked him that Potter was the one who shoved it into his hand, ordering him to eat. The only thing that man did more than flirt outrageously was feed him. But, where did he even get a sandwich? Sure, Draco had actually been closer to fifteen minutes, but that wasn’t enough time for Potter to finish his lunch, get down to the cafeteria, and meet Draco with sandwich in tow.

Casting a glance to where he and Weasley were interviewing the detective on the case, Draco scowled again. That could only mean Potter didn’t finish his own lunch, the prat. Which, in turn, meant Draco was obliged to eat the blasted sandwich. Just then, Potter turned, narrowing his eyes. He flicked them down and back to Draco’s, pointedly.

Draco glared, but took another bite. Grinning, Potter turned back to the detective, something Martin, and Draco turned to gaze longingly at the shop he couldn’t enter. Not until he finished the sandwich; he had no intention of contaminating a crime scene. 

Chewing thoughtfully, he considered the list of items stolen. There had to be a connection between them, they were too specific. If one wanted to go for highest value… well, they’d never rob a charity shop, would they? Especially after two antique shops. Not to mention that stolen antiques were difficult to move, regardless of value. If they were exceptionally rare, maybe, but these were considerably less than.

The first article about the robberies caught Draco’s attention immediately: Mysterious Break-In! The Only Item Stolen: A Necklace Rumoured to Possess Magical Properties. It was bunk, obviously, but he did the research anyway, while waiting for Robards to act. 

Some bloke claimed, two hundred years ago, that the necklace was magical. Nothing he read, though, indicated quite what kind of magic it possessed. But that wasn’t enough for Muggles to disbelieve the claim. It amassed quite the history, passing from hand to hand, disappearing and reappearing over time, even passing through the hands of the royal family, on occasion. 

In fact, the only reason it was in that dingy shop to begin with was that the bumbling idiot who ran the shop didn’t realise what he had. His inventory photo was recognised when the necklace was stolen, ensuring the case was firmly in the public eye.

If the necklace was real, it would be much older and worth much more than the listed value. Draco still needed to get down to the Ministry’s archives, but he doubted he would find anything there, either. It was likely that the necklace, and its myth, were strictly a Muggle phenomenon. What that necklace had to do with a cheap, wooden mobile, though, was anyone’s guess.

Polishing off his sandwich and brushing the crumbs from his hands, Draco rose and finally strode toward the charity shop entrance. He didn’t imagine the shop saw much business; from the outside, it looked like an abandoned warehouse, a disguise wizards would use to keep Muggles away. The metal siding was worn in places, rust eating away at it, and a sign, falling apart and so badly weather worn it was nearly illegible, read “Hope Chest Charity” beside a treasure chest motif. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that anything of value could be found inside.

With a weary sigh, he pushed through the door, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim, windowless room within. There were rows of racks of hanging clothes and aisles of all manner of wares; bedding, furniture, toys, knick knacks. Everywhere he looked, merchandise fell over itself in a mad, disorienting jumble that reminded him of many of the shops in Diagon Alley. Spotting the men and women gathered against the back wall, Draco made his way toward them. Four uniformed police officers, a woman, and a boy of about fourteen, stood just outside the nearest aisle while a team collected forensic evidence within.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, extending his hand to the only woman without a uniform, likely the shopkeeper.

“Hello. I’m Sarah, and this is my son, Jamie.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” He nodded to Jamie, then pulled out a slim pad of paper and a pen from his pocket and watched Sarah, expectantly. “Could you tell me about the break-in?”

She gave him a look, eyeing his cheap suit and expensive loafers, before crossing her arms over her chest and drawing the loose jacket she wore tighter around her torso. “I didn’t realise, straight away, that someone had broken in. The door was still locked, shut tight, you know? Nobody came through there. But…” She paused, glancing toward the front of the shop, and shuddered. “It was like I knew someone had been here, you know? There’s an ottoman, there.” She pointed to the square pouf in the middle aisle, about halfway to the front. “It was supposed to be right there, with all of the chairs, there. But it was in the middle of the walkway, like someone kicked it. It wasn’t like that when I left last night.”

“And you checked the security cameras?” Draco asked, his gaze sweeping across the ceiling and taking in the four devices, one in each corner. “How did you determine what was stolen?”

“I did check the cameras, yes. Only, I can’t afford the kind with night vision, so you can’t see nobody, and nobody says nothing. But you can hear them moving about, and a grunt when they trip over the ottoman.”

“And the mobile was all that was taken?”

“That’s all I’m sure of, yes. I was holding it for a friend of mine who’s due soon. If she couldn’t afford it when the baby came, I was going to give it to her.” Her eyes drifted to something over Draco’s shoulder just before a hand landed there, claiming his attention just as Potter reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair.

“Okay, thank you,” he said, discreetly shrugging Potter’s hand away and passing him the pad. “This is Agent Potter, he’ll take over.”

“Call me Harry,” he insisted. He shot Draco a warm smile before turning to address the shopkeeper. 

With a small nod, Draco wandered away, leaving Potter to his own interviews.

-

“Good night, Auror Potter,” a voice called, and Harry looked up with a smile and a wave for the cheerful blonde who was already making her way toward the Floo banks.

“Good night,” he called, anyway. 

As he continued through dimly lit corridors, he stretched the kinks out of his neck and back, silently pleased no one was around to see the ridiculous picture he made. It had been a good day. There was no sign of another break-in and they were waiting on the case files from Scotland Yard, so he was able to focus on other cases for the time being. Two solved and progress made on the illegal potions ring left Harry in good spirits as he rounded the corner and nudged open the door to Draco's lab. 

This was his favourite time of day. 

Folding his arms over his chest, he leaned one hip against the door jamb, watching Draco work. He was sat at his desk, the wrong way round on a wheeled chair. A cauldron bubbled away to his left, unheeded, as he bent over the results of some analysis or other. He had discarded his robes, a regular occurrence in the muggy heat of his lab, and the long line of his back was accentuated by the trim waistcoat he wore over a crisp, white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing pale skin covered in a fine layer of nearly invisible hair, and the dark smudge of the faded Mark was just visible on the underside of his left forearm. His hair fell loose from the knot at the back of his head, strands flying around his ears and, as Harry watched, he shook his head to force them aside.

Stepping carefully, Harry moved into the room, slipping his hands into his pockets. When he stood just behind Draco, he bent over him and said, in a low voice, “Are you aware that everyone else has left for the evening?”

Draco jolted, scattering reports as he spun around in his chair. The new angle brought them face to face, a breath away. For a moment, he just stared, his eyes a bit dazed, until Harry moved a hair closer and the spell was broken. 

Leaning back, Draco frowned. “Shit, what time is it?” His eyes flew to the clock on the opposite wall, and his face fell when he saw his name wobbling dangerously over LATE. “Fuck!”

“Yes, it’s ‘fuck’ o’clock,” Harry quipped, nodding solemnly and straightening. “Again.”

Draco was already scrambling to pack up his equipment, throwing a stasis charm on his potion, and shoving his arms into his robes. “Yes, thank you, Potter.”

“Again.”

“Again. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait,” Harry said, catching his hand as he passed. “Have dinner with me.”

“Thank you, no.” A light flush coloured Draco's cheeks as he tucked a few wayward strands of hair behind one ear with his free hand. “Don't worry, Potter, I promise to eat, okay?”

“To talk about the case, then.” Harry gave Draco's hand a little squeeze. He wasn’t going to give up that easily, not this time. “You’ve been working on it, already, so you must have some insight.”

Draco frowned again, looking around for a moment before pulling his hand free and rounding the desk to collect his satchel. “Everything from the Flourish and Blotts break-in is in my report,” he said, briskly, but stayed where he was, behind the desk. “I’ll have the report of my analysis from the charity shop to you by lunch, Friday. I'm just waiting on the-”

“Yes, but theories and hunches don’t go into reports, do they?”

Tired, silvery-grey eyes narrowed, and Draco tossed his head again, hitching the satchel onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Potter, I have plans tonight. Why don’t we schedule a time to discuss the case, during work hours?”

Sighing, Harry decided he’d take what he could get, so he shrugged and nodded. “All right. When you bring by the report, then.”

“And miss lunch, again?” Draco asked, amusement twinkling in his eyes and twitching around the corner of his mouth.

“Not on my watch!” Harry paused, smirking, and leaned over the desk. “How about during lunch?”

Draco seemed to respond subconsciously, leaning away even as he nodded. “Fine, Potter, but you’re buying.”

“I was planning on it,” Harry said, then remembered. “Oh, and you're coming to the pub this weekend, right?” 

“I wasn't planning on it, no. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Harry obliged, chuckling, and watched Draco march from the room. He had time to convince him, and lunch would be a good opportunity for some wheedling. It was still a win. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	3. Chapter Two

**"** Papa, papa!” Scorpius shouted when Draco let himself into the dining room. He ignored the exasperated glance his mother sent him and bent to nuzzle his son’s chubby cheek, inhaling the scent that lingered in his soft hair.

“Hello Scorpius. Did you have a good day?”

“Papa, papa!” he squealed, again, waving his little arms around and sending his food splattering to the table.

“Glad to hear it.”

“We went to the zoo, today,” Narcissa offered as he took his seat beside the gurgling toddler, “and Scorpius learned a new word, didn’t you, darling?”

Scorpius turned big, silver eyes on Draco, sweet potatoes streaked across his cheek. “Is that so? What did you see at the zoo today, son?” Draco asked, lifting his fork when a plate appeared before him.

“No!” was the grinning reply and Draco did a double take, then looked at his mother.

“Splendid. I’ve been eagerly awaiting the arrival of that word.”

Narcissa chuckled, lifting a forkful of chicken to her mouth. “It couldn’t be helped, Draco. He wanted to play with the peacocks and I had to explain that these were not as docile as ours.”

“No! No, no, no!”

“That’s enough, Scorpius. Eat your dinner so you can have a bath, yeah?”

Scorpius lit up at that, his eyes going wide with excitement and his gummy grin splitting his rosy little cheeks. Bouncing on his bum in the toddler chair he was strapped into, he shrieked, “No!”

“Only if you eat your dinner,” Draco lied, satisfied when the boy slammed a hand into the mess on his tray and smeared it around, chattering contentedly.

“How was work, son?” Narcissa asked. “Have you made any progress?”

“I don’t know that ‘progress’ is the word for it,” he sighed. “Robards finally got off his arse and determined that the case is related to those robberies in Muggle London. We’re taking over that case.”

“Oh, dear. What else was stolen?”

“Nothing as valuable as an original print of Beedle the Bard,” he assured her. “There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the items they’ve stolen. Yet.”

“It’ll come together, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Draco insisted. “A little frustrated, but not worried. I’m working with Potter and Weasley on this.”

“Oh?” Narcissa said, a smirk twisting her lips for a moment before she lifted her napkin to hide it. “I’m so sorry. Is there any way you can request another team?”

Draco sighed, again, pushing his food around on his plate, much the way his son still was. “No, they are the team I requested. We have to deal with Muggles; they’re the obvious choice. Potter still thinks it’s his responsibility to feed me…”

“You're skipping meals, again?”

“That’s beside the point, Mother. I can take care of my—-”

“If that were the case, darling, Harry Potter would not be taking up the task.” It wasn't the first time she said so, and he doubted it would be the last. 

Draco scowled, shoving a bite into his mouth. “Of course, he would,” he said around the food, simply because he knew it would annoy his mother. “He has a bloody hero complex.”

“Which has already worked in your favour, twice,” she sniffed, then took a bite herself, pointedly sealing her lips as she chewed.

“Thank you, Mother, I had completely forgotten.” Rising, he released the clasps holding Scorpius in his chair and lifted the boy out, ignoring the orange goop he smeared into Draco’s white shirt. “Come along, Scorpius, let’s get you cleaned up and see if we can’t find a story to read, before bed.”

“Good night, Draco,” Narcissa called. 

He flinched, then turned back to press a kiss to her smooth cheek. “Good night, Mother.”

Nodding along absently as Scorpius chattered incoherently, Draco climbed the stairs to his room. He settled Scorpius on his hip while he filled the ancient, clawfoot tub and collected a set of pyjamas and a soft, clean towel. While he soaped the tiny back, he found his mind wandering, beyond the splashing of little fists and rubber toys, past his mother's subtle suggestions and judgements, back to Potter.

After working with the man for a year, he still wasn't accustomed to the warm smiles and friendly teasing, let alone his odd inclinations. Clearly, his private life wasn't as private as he'd hoped. He knew about the rumours, though he'd never felt the need to confirm them. But there was no reason for Potter to mock him. Draco could handle Potter’s obsessive need to take care of everyone around him, but he'd never get used to the flirting.

He had dreaded returning, even as he packed his trunks to travel home. He didn't know what to expect from England, what to expect from Potter— - with whom he knew he'd eventually be working. Potter had followed everyone's expectations, training with the Aurors straight out of Hogwarts, moving up the ranks quickly, looking bloody gorgeous in his Auror robes... 

It was no surprise when they were foisted together on a case, mere weeks after Draco's arrival. What was surprising was the distinct lack of hostility. Potter treated him, first, with cool professionalism, all polite smiles and lightly clipped words. As time went on, through the progression of their case and after, he'd warmed considerably. 

It was bloody distracting. He learned things about Potter that he was better off not knowing. That he smelled of eucalyptus, for example. That his smiles lit his eyes, making the green that much more vivid. That the heat of his hands seeped through the material of Draco's shirts, when Potter touched him, which was far too often, drawing unwanted reactions from his traitorous body. 

He thought he was past this, thought the silly school boy crush on Potter had passed in the time he'd been away. It would seem that wasn't the case. His heart still sped when Potter looked at him, his sweat dampened his palms when they stood close. In fact, it was worse than ever. Because, these days, Potter did things he never did in school. He smiled at Draco. He laughed that warm, carefree laugh usually reserved for friends. He flirted with him, for fuck’s sake. And, if it he kept it up, Draco would likely do something foolish. 

Like believe it. 

A rather exuberant splash drew Draco back to the present and he laughed when he saw the little pile of suds atop Scorpius’ head. “Like that, do you?” he asked, grinning when Scorpius gurgled, lifting a handful of bubbles in solemn offering. “Why, thank you.”

With a sigh, he lifted the little decanter he kept in the bath, for just this purpose, and poured the warm water over Scorpius’ head, cooing when the boy sputtered. Then chuckling when he licked his lips and smacked them with an exaggerated aaah. When all traces of soap were gone, Draco braced one hand against his tiny shoulders and reached for the towel before lifting him from the water. Scorpius yawned, his eyes drooping and, before Draco could finish dressing him in the cozy night clothes and lie him in his cot, they closed completely. 

No storybook, tonight, Draco thought. He bent to press a kiss to the bath-warmed skin of Scorpius’ temple, then straightened, content to watch him sleep until his own exhaustion tugged him away. He fell into bed without changing his clothes, already half asleep when his head hit the pillow. 

-

I won't defend my crimes; my actions are mine. She may have controlled me, in those moments, but she didn't have to. I would have done anything she asked of me. As any child would do for his mother. 

Some still try to claim that her control over me began long before she ever cast a spell, but what does that matter? Every action, taken by every person on this earth, is influenced by those around them. Why should mine be less my responsibility than those? 

But I digress. On that day, we weren't committing any crime, merely planning one. The shop was just like the others. Beautiful, old things lined the walls and open shelving displayed various knickknacks, tools, and utensils. One shelf, running the length of the back wall and high enough to be out of the reach of children, held a dazzling array of toys. Dolls and race cars, fire engines and stuffed animals. 

As Mother scanned the room, searching for her treasures, my eyes lingered on those toys— - there wasn't a point in the shop where you couldn't see them— - and longed for a life where I could own toys like them. Sitting in the garden with my Mum and Dad, while they would read or drink tea and watch the sky. Mum would smile. Dad would play with me, getting down in the grass. He'd be the fire engine. 

“Lucas!” Mother hissed, dragging me from my daydream. “Get over here!” 

Hurrying around a display, I found her standing before a tall, wrought iron lamp, but she wasn't looking at that. Her gaze was directed up, to the left, at an oval shaped mirror. It was the size of her torso and the metal frame curled and twisted in on itself to form ivy vines, studded with leaves. The whole thing was polished to a sheen, and clearly matched the lamp below it. 

“These,” she whispered. “These were his. Go on, now. Do your job.”

Nodding, even though she couldn't see it, I turned and set out to circle the shop, memorising the layout, the exits, the security cameras. There were three entrances; the one we'd come through, one at the back, and another about halfway across the back wall, just under the shelf of toys. 

Mother bought a trinket, something she didn't want or need, to avoid suspicion, and we were on our way. I waited until she'd Apparated us home, then told her what I found, assured her I'd be able to find the mirror and lamp again, in the dark.

“Good. We'll go on Sunday.”

Without a word, she retreated to her bedroom, leaving me to do what I wished. Knowing it would be what she wished.  

-

Interviewing victims and witnesses was not the most exciting part of being an Auror, but Harry quite liked it nevertheless. Most were forthcoming, polite. Kind, even. And, the nice thing about interviewing Muggles was that no one knew who he was, so their hospitality was entirely genuine. 

Clarice Baker was just such a victim. She was eighty if she was a day, the generic grandmother type. With her steel grey hair swept up in a loose bun and the smell of biscuits baking wafting from her little flat, she ushered them into a sitting room that likely hadn't changed in more than a decade.

As she served them tea in delicate china, she recounted her experience. Apparently, it was weeks, at least, before she even realised there had been a robbery. Which didn't bode well for the evidence Draco would have to work with. 

“You see, I don't get much business. I get by on odds and ends, but it's mostly large items that keep me afloat. Bureaus, armoires, headboards. So, of course, I don't carry many small items. But I do love tea.”

Ron smirked and Harry chuckled. “I can see why. I doubt I'll find another cup like this as long as I live.”

Mrs Baker tittered, patting at her bun. “Oh, hush. Anyway, it was a lovely tea service. China with gold inlay, more than one hundred years old. A customer came in, looking for a tea service. He told me he wanted something special, for his mother's birthday, and I immediately thought of it. 

“But, when I led him to its spot, it was empty! Now, I'm no spring chicken, but I  _ knew _ I didn't sell it. Of course, no one would believe me, so I went through the records, even called my Jimmy. My son. He's my accountant, dear boy. And he said it wasn't anywhere on the books. Not since I bought it. What was it? Maybe ten years ago.”

“And nothing else was taken?” Ron asked, looking up from his notes, half a biscuit still pinched between two fingers. 

“No. Jimmy helped me compare the inventory to the records before we went to the police.”

“And you didn't notice anything amiss, before that?” Harry asked. He leaned toward her, as far as the squashy armchair allowed, and fixed her with an earnest gaze. “Unlocked doors, loose window panes?”

“No, nothing of the like.” She shook her head, lifted her teacup. 

This was the part Harry dreaded of every Muggle interview. But, it couldn't be helped, so he dove right in. 

“Perhaps you saw something that you forgot? Or didn't realise you saw.” Setting his cup on the low tea table, he reached across the distance, offering his hands. “If you could, I'd like to try something. Close your eyes for me, dear.”

She took his hands and did as he asked, wriggling deeper into her own armchair. Harry flicked a glance to Ron to find him already rising and circling the old woman. As Harry spoke, Ron drew his wand, pressed the tip lightly to her temple, and cast, drawing out the thin sliver of silvery light that was her memories of the event. 

“Very good,” Harry said, meanwhile. “Now, think about the last time you saw the tea service.”

“Oh, that was quite some time before I discovered it missing.”

“That's okay,” he assured her. “That's just fine. Do you remember it?” 

“Well, yes.” Her brow furrowed and she squeezed Harry's hands a bit tighter. “Another customer, a young woman, asked to see my tea services, about a week before. I showed her that one, but she seemed particularly taken with another. Didn't take her eyes off it. Said she'd be back to buy it, but I haven't seen her, since.”

At Harry's nod, Ron removed another memory, storing it and hiding it away. 

“That's very good, Mrs Baker,” Harry said, while Ron returned to his seat. “You've been a tremendous help.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she slowly withdrew her hands. “I'm sorry I couldn't be more help. It's a shame when honest shopkeepers can't keep their products safe. I have a full security system and the thief still got to me.” She rose, still shaking her head, and led them to the door with a promise to call if she remembered anything else. 

Outside the flat, Harry shuddered. “Fuck, I hate doing that.”

“I know,” Ron said with a grimace. “But it's better than having to obliviate the poor old bird.”

“The memories are probably worthless, anyway. It's been more than a month since she noticed the service was stolen.” 

Together, they turned into apparition, landing neatly outside the ministry. “Likely,” Ron agreed. “But we still have to take it. You know that.”

Harry sighed. “I know that.” 

As they left the lift, headed toward their office, Harry jolted, then cast a quick Tempus. Quarter to twelve. 

“You’ve got lunch with Hermione, today, right?” he asked, hurriedly. 

“Why,” Ron asked, letting himself into the office ahead of Harry. “Did you want fish and chips, again? So soon?”

“No.” Laughing, Harry flopped into his chair, rotating idly. “Definitely not. I’m taking Draco to lunch, to discuss the case—-”

“Oh, shit, I didn’t know that. I can reschedule with—-”

“No, no, I can manage. I’ll take notes and fill you in, later.” All innocence, Harry crossed his arms under his head and watched Ron empty his pockets onto his desk. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” he snorted. “You, take notes? I’ll just send an owl. Or maybe I should Floo her. It’s nearly lunch.”

“Really, Ron, it’s no trouble. Go. Have lunch with your wife. I can handle this.”

Pausing halfway around his desk, Ron sent him a look, eyes narrowed, discomfort crossing his face. “This is a date, isn't it?” he asked, and Harry chuckled.

“Sadly, no. This is what I could get. I don’t really plan on spending much time talking about the case, though, so I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t get roped into coming along.”

“Right. I’d rather miss that, thanks.” His eyes widened dramatically and he sat, as well, pulling a file closer. “I’m telling you, though, you won’t get anywhere. I don't know why you listen to all that gossip.”

“Wishful thinking,” Harry retorted, grinning. 

“Yeah, well—-”

“Here’s your report, Potter.” Draco’s voice preceded him into the office, cutting Ron off while Harry jumped to his feet.

“Thanks.” He took the report, his fingers lingering over Draco's before setting it on his desk. “You ready for lunch, then?”

“Lunch?” Draco frowned, somewhat dazed eyes peering at Harry. “Oh, fuck. I’m actually in the middle of a potion. I can’t get away.”

“Nonsense,” Harry countered. “We can stop by the lab and put a stasis on it.” Ron sniggered, and Harry shot him a withering glare.

“I really shouldn’t, it’s at a deli—-”

But Harry interrupted him, settling a hand on the small of his back. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

“Have fun,” Ron called, and Draco froze in the process of shrugging Harry's hand away.

“Aren’t you coming, too?” he asked.

Ron shook his head, then grinned. “Nope. I’ve lunch with the missus. Harry will fill me in when he gets back.”

Sending a smirk Ron's way, Harry steered Draco, spluttering, from the office. “So, what would you like for lunch?” he asked, conversationally. “Fish and chips?” 

“I thought Weasley would be…”

“I know, so did I.” His tone was believably disappointed, surprising Harry a little. “I forgot Fridays were his and Hermione's weekly lunch. Looks like it’s just you and me.”

At the potions lab, Harry stood aside, allowing Draco to enter before him. He huffed, but glided into the room, taking a few notes before casting the necessary spells. While he waited, Harry wandered around the room, peering into phials of ingredients, reading labels on assorted potion bottles, lifting knick knacks and examining each one before he replaced it. Draco certainly had a lot of stuff. The closest Harry ever got to a potions lab, before last year, was Snape’s office at Hogwarts, which paled in comparison.

The lab, itself, was a large, airy room. It was brightly lit and stocked with supplies and equipment, and a small garden covered one worktop along the back wall. It was quiet, studious— - not unlike Draco, himself. Harry imagined it didn’t take much to get lost in this room. With so many possibilities, so many outcomes to test and theorise. Draco was a scientist, an artist, squirrelled away, content to create and recreate until some outside force moved him.

“Are we going, then?” he drawled, and Harry looked up, setting the small metal snake he held back in its place on an over-crowded bookshelf.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said with a smile. Harry was determined to move him. “Have you thought of what you might like to eat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	4. Chapter Three

The oppressive darkness of Apparition, and the short walk from the alley to his favourite street vendor, did nothing to settle Draco’s nerves. Lunch with Potter, alone, was not what he agreed to. Was it?

“So, what have you got?” Potter was asking the vendor as Draco focused on his breathing. 

Paul snorted at the question. “Fish and chips,” he replied.

Potter chuckled. “You don't say?”

“Something wrong with fish and chips?” the burly man asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Not at all. It does start to lose its charm after a month or so, though.”

Draco sighed. “Forgive him, Paul, he was raised by wolves.”

“Hey now,” Potter argued, scowling, and Draco felt a little more steady. Banter was something he knew how to handle. 

“I apologise, I meant Muggles.” Paul chuckled, and Draco sent him a smirk. “Two please. Potter’s tab.”

“Oh, ‘Arry Potter’s buying you lunch now, is ‘e?”

“As it should be.” He winked, accepting the newsprint wrapped food. Beside him, Potter laughed. 

“Oh, please. It was the only way I could get him to have a meal with me,” he explained, digging into his pockets as he smiled up at Paul. “Muggle money okay?”

“Yep.” He nodded, sending the tattoo of a busty blonde on his bare shoulder winking with the movement. “Why you wanna eat with a stiff like Draco, anyway?”

Potter laughed at that, too, and Draco had to remind himself to breathe. Potter was teasing, that was all. That was all he ever did. “Mostly, to make sure he does eat. It seems he doesn’t do that too often. But – now don’t tell him this – I’m also hoping to, you know, ease the way. If you will.” Draco scoffed, but Paul seemed pleased by the idea.

“Are you, now?” he asked in conspiratorial whisper, his dark eyes sparkling with interest and amusement. “Well, you know what they say about the way to a man’s heart, right?”

“Right.”

“I’m right here,” Draco reminded them. He ground his teeth, frowning when they carried on as if they couldn’t hear him.

“I think you’re on the right track, but I’d give ‘im my chips, if I were you.”

“Yeah? Think that’s enough?” Potter’s voice was warm, an odd note threaded through it, making it sound... hopeful. “I've been trying for a while. We have quite the history, mate. And, most of it ugly…”

“Nah, ‘e’s a softy. Whatever you did wrong, I’m sure ‘e forgave you for it, right away. And ‘e really likes chips.”

Wide green eyes shifted to Draco’s, searching, then lowered to sweep down the length of his chest. Draco winced, thinking of the pale, thin scars crisscrossing the flesh, there. Of course, Paul was right; he forgave Potter almost instantly. He knew the idiot had no idea what he was doing. But Potter didn’t need to know that.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Potter said thoughtfully.

Flipping open the wrapping of his food, Draco stalked away, toward the cluster of picnic tables at the center of a ring of similar vendors. Sitting, he pinched off a piece of fish, popping it into his mouth, then turned to glare until Potter reached his side. 

“Wasn't there a reason for this meeting?” he asked when Potter flashed a grin and folded his long legs under the table, sitting entirely too close. Draco forced a frown at the low groan of pleasure he emitted upon taking his first bite. Frankly, the man had no right being half as charming as he was.

“Wow,” he breathed. “This is really good.”

“It's just fish and chips, Potter.”

“No, Draco. This is really good.” He twisted his neck, straining to see the trolley behind them, and full, dark lips formed silent words as he read the name splashed across the front, then the cross streets. Draco looked away, his mouth suddenly arid. “Why haven't you told Ron about this place?”

“The case, Potter?”

“You're allowed to call me Harry, you know?” Potter smirked, unwrapping his food until it was laid out on a square of newspaper. He dragged the corner toward Draco, gestured at his chips in silent offering.

Draco ignored him. “And you’re still allowed to call me Malfoy. Yet, I’m sure you’ve noticed, that doesn’t stop you from using my given name.”

Smiling, he picked up a bit of fish. “I feel like the next words out of my mouth should be an insult when I call you Malfoy,” he admitted. “We aren’t in school anymore, Draco. We’re colleagues.”

“Colleagues talk about work,” Draco argued, pointedly.

“Not always. We're on lunch.”

“We're having a meeting,” Draco corrected. He had to get them back on track. He wasn't prepared for small talk with Potter. 

“Have you changed your mind about the pub, yet?” Potter asked before he could gather his thoughts. 

“I'm busy,” Draco replied, lowering his head. He doubted it would work, though. It had been more than a month since the last time he agreed to go, even though someone invited him at least once a week. Potter, Luna, even Blaise and Pansy hounded him. 

“Come on, Draco, it's been ages.”

“I do have responsibilities outside of work, you know?” 

“What's so important that you can't take one evening to relax?” 

Blond hair, rosy cheeks, and shining silver eyes filled Draco's mind and it was on the tip of his tongue to inform Potter that nothing was more important than his son. Except, Potter didn't know he had a son. Draco was loath to share Scorpius with the world, just yet, and saw no reason he should. 

But Potter wanted an answer. And Draco wanted Potter off his back. Compromise, he thought. It was his last option. “Next time,” he promised. 

His face fell, but Potter nodded. “Alright, I'll take what I can get.”

“Good. Now, work.” He nodded, again, so Draco continued, adopting his professional voice and nibbling on his last chip. “The samples I collected from Flourish and Blotts were largely inconclusive,” he began. “With such heavy foot traffic, there were simply too many samples. I've nearly finished cataloging them, and I'm almost positive our thief is among them.”

“Okay,” Potter said, nodding. “What about the other locations?” 

“I've only just started on the evidence from Scotland Yard but, after analysing what we found at the charity shop, I think we'll have more of the same. It isn't much, mostly fingerprints.”

“Are any of them in the database?” He brushed crumbs from his hands, then leaned forward on one elbow. 

Draco turned to face him, excitement ringing in his voice. “No, but that doesn’t mean they’re useless.” Without thinking, he snagged one of Potter's chips before continuing his hurried explanation. “The shape, the patterns of the ridges and whorls. The size.”

“The size?” Potter asked, his brow furrowing.

“The size.”

“I thought size didn’t matter…”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, denial on the tip of his tongue, when he caught the twinkle in Potter’s eyes. “Fuck off,” he said, instead, expelling an indignant huff and doing his best to ignore the rolling laugh that threatened to carry him along with it. “Why did you drag me out of my lab if you didn’t want to hear what I have to say?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Potter laughed, reaching forward, closing a hand over Draco’s wrist on the table. “I do want to hear what you have to say. Please, continue.”

But Draco simply stared, his eyes glued to the biological furnace burning a hole through his sleeve, his skin, his focus. He had to push it away, shake it off, before it caused permanent damage. He lifted his gaze to Potter, clinging to his intention of demanding he remove his hand. If he were capable of removing it, himself, he surely would have. Unfortunately, the words clogged in his chest when he found Potter staring right back. Only, his vibrant eyes were locked on Draco’s face and the heat pouring from them quickly overpowered that of his hand.

“P—-Potter?” he asked, cursing the way his voice wavered.

“The fingerprints,” Potter reminded him, sliding his hand away slowly. 

Draco shook himself. “Right. The fingerprints.”

He wasn't entirely sure what he said, after that. Something about the length and width of the prints, the indicators that served as clues to their owner, the benefits of having solid prints to help them identify future break-ins and, eventually, the thief himself. That was what he meant to say but, again, he wasn't sure. By the time he was standing in his lab, staring blankly at his potion and wondering where he left off, all he could remember for certain was the shifting green, set in dark skin that crinkled when Potter smiled, laughed, but remained steady on his own eyes throughout the rest of their meal.

Fuck. 

-

“Careful, Ted,” Harry called, poking his head around the partition that separated the sitting room of the Weasley-Granger flat from the kitchen. “Do exactly as Hermione says.”

His small frame quivered with excitement and his hair flowed rapidly from green to pink to blue, as well as the natural hair colour of every adult present. Dropping to sit cross-legged against the soft, he continued vibrating as Hermione carefully passed him the tiny bundle and a bottle of breastmilk. 

“He's fine, Harry,” Ron teased, elbowing him, lightly. “Hermione's right there and that floor has had a constant cushioning charm since a week before Rose was born. Relax.”

“I know,” Harry sighed, returning to the hob to stir his bolognese. “She just so tiny. It's hard to imagine any of us were that tiny, you know? Even Teddy.”

“I know,” Ron laughed. “But I promise you, we won't break her. Just like none of us broke Teddy.”

“Look, Aunt ‘Mione!” Teddy squealed. “She's holding my little finger!” 

“I see that,” Hermione chuckled. “She's very strong, isn't she?” 

“Yeah! I didn't know babies could be strong! But I'm still stronger, see?” 

“So,” Harry asked, pushing aside his nerves. “Any idea what we're up against?” 

Ron snorted. “A thief with bad taste?” Setting a large pot to boil, he turned his attention to preparing the salad. 

“Besides the obvious, I mean.” 

“Dunno. We don't have a lot to go on, just yet. What'd Malfoy say about the forensics?”

Harry sighed, again. He turned the heat down to low, then pulled out a loaf of French bread and sliced it down the middle. “Something about the size of the fingerprint. I was distracted. Maybe that they were larger than expected? Smaller?”

“Very helpful, mate. Gonna have to send you off on your own more often.” Dodging the wooden spoon Harry chucked at him, Ron laughed, full and loud. “You said you'd take notes!” 

“I did,” Harry countered. “He has a friend he winks at, who gives relationship advice even though he looks like the guy at the pub who’d knock you out for looking at him cross-eyed. He really likes chips; Paul said that was the way to his heart. And, he gets these flecks of silver in his eyes that disappear when he's nervous.”

“Oh, good. That should be helpful with the manhunt,” Ron said, nodding solemnly. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry laughed. Finished slathering the bread with garlic butter, Harry deposited it into the oven, then added pasta to the boiling water. Then turned to lean against the counter. “I believe I said that I didn't intend to talk about the case all that much.”

“Ew!” Teddy cried and, a moment later, came barrelling into the kitchen, followed by the sound of Hermione's laughter. “She yacked on me!” he exclaimed, turning in circles to see the trail of spittle that rolled slowly down his back. 

Ron dropped one large hand to the boy's shoulder, a look of commiseration settling over his face. “You are now a man, Ted.”

Harry smirked, picking his wand up from where it lay beside the hob. “Come here, Teddy. I'll get you cleaned up.” 

When he finished, Teddy tried to dash back out of the room, halted by Harry's grip on his shirt. 

“Not so fast.” Dragging open a drawer, Harry gestured to the rows of silverware. “I need you to set the table, please.”

“But, Harry,” he whinged. “I was playing with Rose.”

“If Rose has burped, she's ready for bed,” Ron reasoned. “Don't forget the plates.”

Sighing in a remarkably world weary manner, considering his age, he plunged his hands into the drawer, then got down to business while Ron drained the pasta and Harry retrieved the garlic bread. When Hermione returned from putting the baby down, she beamed at them. 

“Look at all of you!” Sliding an arm around Ron's neck, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It smells wonderful, in here.”

“I set the table,” Teddy piped in, grinning up at her. “Can I have a kiss, too?” 

Hermione ducked down to kiss his little cheek as he giggled. “Thank you very much for your help, Teddy. You did a lovely job.” Straightening, she turned back to Harry and Ron. “How's the case coming along?” 

Passing her a bottle of wine and glasses, Ron quirked a smile. “Oh, we've had a breakthrough!” 

“Shut up,” Harry grumbled, carrying the pasta to the table. 

Hermione looked between them, a quizzical expression marring her smooth brow. 

“Yeah,” Ron went on, nodding. “Turns out, Malfoy has  _ eyes,” _ he gasped, “that  _ wink!  _ And friends!” 

“No!” Playing along, Hermione lifted a hand to her neck, scandalised. 

“Who  _ also _ wink,” Harry quipped. He dropped into a chair beside Teddy and ruffled the boy's hair, now stabilised to his usual teal. 

“Draco does wink a lot,” he said, giggling, again. “Aunt Narcissa says he has something stuck in his eye.”

Ron cackled at that, sliding into his own chair and depositing the salad between them. “He does, mate,” he said, bending close to Teddy, as if sharing some deep secret. “And, as Aurors, it's our job to find out what it is!” 

“All right, you two. Stop picking on Harry and eat your dinner.” Always the voice of reason, Hermione set a glass of wine before each of the men, and one of juice before Teddy, then took her own seat. “I want to know about the actual case.”

“Hey, Ted,” Harry said. “Fetch the the bread, yeah?” While he scampered off to do so, Harry turned back to his friends. “We still don't have much to go on. None of the evidence— - Thank you, Teddy— - None of the evidence is conclusive. Our thief isn't in any database, anywhere. We've got ourselves a good, old fashioned detective case.”

“Like Cluedo?” Teddy asked around a mouthful of pasta. 

“Just like Cluedo,” Harry agreed. 

“Except, no one's died,” Ron interjected. “Just stole a bunch of stuff.”

“Oh! Did they bury it? Pirates bury their treasure.”

Harry laughed. “I don't think so, Ted. Besides, the things they stole aren't really treasures.”

“Hang on,” Ron said, gesturing with his fork. “What if they are treasures?” 

Harry frowned. The items were very specific, if rather random. And it seemed unlikely they'd be able to sell them, even if they were worth much. Most of them had been sitting in those shops for years. Decades. 

“Everything means something to somebody,” Ron was saying. “What if they only seem random to us?” 

“It's worth looking into,” Harry agreed. “Maybe stolen heirlooms? Or—-” Looking up, he caught Hermione's eye. She was smiling so brightly, the wine glass she held up did next to nothing to hide it. “What?” 

Ron glanced up, too, then grinned. “No worries, mate. That's her “I'm so proud of my idiots” face.” Hermione swatted at his shoulder, but he caught her hand, kissed it. 

“Well, I am. You're both so… Grown up,” she decided. 

“Yeah,” Ron snorted. “Never thought that would happen.”

The atmosphere around the table hovered on nostalgic for all of two minutes before Teddy broke the silence. “Are we having dessert?”

Ron and Hermione sniggered, but Harry clapped a hand on Teddy's back. “Yes,” he said. “After you've finished your salad.”

-

With Scorpius finally settled for his afternoon nap, Draco made his way to the little potions lab down the corridor from his bedroom. He had just enough time to check on the location potion before Pansy was scheduled to arrive. 

Picking up his notes, he stood over the cauldron, studying the aroma and colour. It didn't have the same earthy green a usual location potion should have, at this stage, but that was to be expected. Unicorn hair had a way of turning any potion it touched to a pale gold, reminiscent of elderflower honey. The scent, too, was different. Less musty, more spring forest. 

He jotted his observations down, then picked up a stirring rod to test the texture. The base potion should have the consistency of mud. Which was understandable, as it was intended to smear over a map, giving the reader a clear route to their destination. With any luck, this potion would pinpoint the original location of trace evidence, giving the Aurors a better understanding of the location of a suspect. 

If he could make it work. 

Giving the potion a half stir, he noted the viscosity, closer to cream than mud, just as Pansy let herself into the lab. 

“I knew I'd find you here,” she said by way of greeting and cocked a hip. 

“Hello Pans,” Draco said, absently. Satisfied with his observations, he checked the temperature of the fire and gave the potion two stirs, anticlockwise, before turning to face her. “Where else would I be?” 

“Oh, I don't know. In the parlour, where you're expected? Are you finished?”

“Just. Shall we?” Gesturing toward the door, he set his notes down and followed her out. “How are you, Pansy?” 

“Oh, you know. Bored, single, rich. It's a dangerous combination.” She craned her neck as they passed his bedroom, looking over her shoulder for a short distance. “Are you sure I can't just have a peek?” 

“No, Pans,” Draco groaned, hooking his arm through hers. “He's sleeping. If you wake him now, it'll be hell getting him to sleep, tonight.” 

“Fine.” She pouted, but turned away from the room. “But I had better be the one you call when you need a sitter.”

“When do you expect I'll need a sitter?” Draco scoffed. 

“When you pull your head out of your arse and have dinner with Potter,” she said, eyeing him pointedly. “How long are you going to make the poor man wait?” 

“He's not  _ waiting, _ Pansy. He's teasing,” he insisted, for the umpteenth time. “It's a joke, and I won't dignify it.” 

“Are you telling me that Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world and all around good guy, is smacking your arse because he's homophobic?” 

“He's never once smacked my arse—-” 

“Shame.”

“And aren't you the one who insists he's gay, himself?”

“Well, why else would he ‘tease’ you like that?” 

“Because he's a twat with the sense of humour of a twelve year old?” When they reached his favorite parlour, Draco pulled the door open for her, then entered and rang the service bell to summon Jinx, the Malfoys’ elderly house elf. “Could you send out tea, please?” he asked, then turned to Pansy. “Biscuits? Tea cake?”

“Tea cake sounds lovely, thank you,” Pansy crooned, settling herself on one high backed armchair.

“Anythin’ else Master Draco be wantin’?” Jinx asked, her gravelly voice pitched low. 

“No, thank you, Jinx. That will be all.” When she left, he turned to the fireplace and sprinkled a pinch of Floo powder over the flames, opening the path to his bedroom and leaving it open as he took his own seat on the sofa. “Now, where were we?” 

“You were trying to convince me that Harry Potter doesn't actually have the hots for you.”

“Ah, yes. He doesn't.”

“He does. He is, you know? Gay, I mean.” 

“Yes, so you've told me. That doesn't mean anything.”

“I beg to differ. I've always known you two had more than rivalry going on.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Pansy. We hated each other.” But he squirmed under her piercing gaze. They both knew it was a lie, regardless of how Draco had tried, over the years, to squash his feelings. “Fine, he hated me.”

“Could you blame him?” she asked. “With the way you treated him, I'm surprised he doesn't still hate you.” 

“Maybe he does,” Draco murmured. “Maybe that's why he's doing this. He's trying to scare me away.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, gently. “But you're forgetting that I've seen the two of you together. And, in my humble opinion, he's hooked.”

“You don't have a humble bone in your body, let alone a humble opinion.” Sighing, he lifted his head, again. “Let's talk about something else. How's the gallery?” 

“Tedious and expensive,” she drawled. “I adore it. We have a show scheduled later this month. A Muggle-born who took to expressing her view of the wizarding world through art, after leaving school.”

“That sounds—-” he winced when Pansy sent him a withering look. “Well, how should it sound? Exciting? Droll?” 

“You could always come to the show, form an opinion on the art from first hand experience. And decide that, yes, it is rather droll. Bring Potter along, I'm sure he'd simply love it.”

When the tea arrived, Draco sat forward to prepare a cup, offering it to Pansy before mixing his own. “Don't be a cunt,” he sneered, reclining with his own cup and glaring at her.

“But I'm so good at it, darling.” Selecting a tea cake, Pansy lifted it, as if in a toast. “Suit yourself. How's  _ your  _ work been?” 

“Also tedious,” he sighed. “Hundreds of hair samples, trace evidence I can't analyse yet. And that's not even counting the evidence from Scotland Yard. Remind me never to go poking in Muggle cases again, won't you?”

“As if you listen to my advice,” she scoffed. “Who would have thought; Draco Malfoy, collecting hair and dirt.”

Draco frowned. “It's not far off from collecting potions ingredients. Surely it isn't that surprising.”

“I suppose not.” 

Just as she drained the last of her tea, the sound of fussing baby filtered through the flames, and Draco rose. “He's awake,” he said, redundantly.” If you want to see him, now’s the time.”

Standing as well, Pansy squealed and followed him through the fire, into his bedroom, making a beeline for the cot beside his bed. Content to put the conversation aside, Draco spent the rest of the afternoon watching his best friend fawn over his son, smiling a ridiculous smile he would later deny. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	5. Chapter Four

As soon as we landed in the house, as soon as she removed the curse controlling my limbs, I crouched to the floor, retching. The events of that night, in that antique shop, were burned into my mind, so much so that I can remember it clearly to this day. The shock when a light flickered on; the fear when Mother shrieked, raising her wand, and the dim light was washed out by the flashing green; the confusion when the old man fell to the ground, a look of terror frozen on his face, and every item in the shop rose, as one, and began circling overhead in a storm of wood and glass and metal.

I cowered against a shelf in the back of the shop, my arms wrapped tightly around my head, my eyes locked on the motionless form of the shopkeeper, a foot from me. I was certain he was dead, though I don't know how. And I had never been so terrified of Mother as I was in that moment, with her anger swirling around me. 

“Stop!” she cried. “Stop it!” 

As if on cue, the storm ceased, punctuated by the thunder of antiques crashing to the floor, shattering, splintering. I didn't dare move. 

“The mirror, Lucas!” she barked, marching past me, and I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the pain that bloomed in my hands and knees, where I’d scored them on the broken glass in my haste. 

When I reached her side, she was kneeling beside the lamp, now a hunk of twisted metal, anguish twisting her own features. Whimpering, she ran a hand over the shade, lovingly. 

“I can fix it,” she muttered. “It's okay, baby, I can fix it. It'll be okay.” With shaking hands, she pointed her wand, cursed, then took a deep breath to steady herself. When her hand stopped quivering, she tried again. “ _ Reparo _ !” she shouted, and I cringed away from her, my eyes locked on the lamp as it lifted itself into the air, curling and bending until every kink in the metal disappeared.

When she was done, she turned cold eyes on me. “The mirror, Lucas. Where is it?” 

My eyes scanned the shop immediately, but she was already rising, wading through the debris, and dropping to her knees again. The mirror got the same treatment, and I cried out as a shard of glass went whizzing by, slashing a cut on my shoulder before fitting itself into place and sealing among the others. 

Leaving the rest, she gathered her treasures, yanked me along, and Apparated us away. 

-

“Draco,” Narcissa called, opening the door of drawing room where he sat, amidst a sea of toys, with a gurgling Scorpius on his lap. “Darling, it's getting late. Shouldn't you be heading to the Ministry?” 

He hummed, but continued to watch as Scorpius flailed his arms about, holding his gaze with the intensity of a toddler with something important to say. “One moment, Mother. Scorpius is telling me the secrets of the universe.”

“Unless he's telling you the secrets of your case, I suggest you get moving.” She crossed her arms over her thin chest and looked down her nose at the pair of them. 

Draco sighed, turning silver-grey eyes to pout up at her, and Scorpius followed suit, though his eyes were a great deal rounder and brighter than his father's. “Don't give me that look, young man. Go to work.”

“No!” Scorpius cried, holding his arms out to his grandmother and bouncing on Draco's knee. 

Draco glared as Narcissa lifted him to her hip. “Traitor,” he mumbled, but rose to his feet, obligingly. “All right. Don't burn down the house while I'm gone.” He kissed Scorpius’ cheek, then Narcissa’s, and strode toward the Floo, summoning his satchel and robes from the sofa as he went. 

“Have a good day, dear.”

He smiled, waving as the green flames enveloped him. The last thing he heard was a bright “Would you like a trip to Diagon Alley today, Scorpius?” before he was whisked along and deposited in the Ministry's atrium. The sight that greeted him was odd for a Friday morning. A small throng of officials were packed in a tight group, all talking at once. Spotting the mop of dark hair and the flash of Weasley red, Draco changed course halfway to the lift. 

“Were there any witnesses?” Potter was asking when Draco reached him. Weasley was on his other side and hard lines marred both of their faces as the Junior Auror answered his question. 

“No, Auror Potter. Scotland Yard says it was the same as the others; the break in occurred at night, security cameras didn't catch anything but hints of movement, and the crime wasn't discovered until morning.”

“Who found the victim?” Weasley asked. 

“Victim?” Draco repeated. “What victim?”

“There was a victim, this time,” Potter offered, resting a hand on the small of Draco's back. “The owner of the antique shop lived in the flat upstairs. He was still in the building when the thief broke in.”

“Shit.” Running a hand through his hair, Draco turned to Potter, then toward the direction of his lab. “I'm going to need my equipment. When are we leaving?” 

“Soon as we're finished here,” Potter replied. “Get what you need. We'll meet you at the Apparition point in ten minutes.”

Draco nodded and took off down the corridor, his satchel slapping against his side as he jogged. When he returned, the crowd was thinning. Aurors, Obliviators and, most worryingly, Unspeakables, were filing out in pairs, some toward the Apparition points, some back toward their offices. He found Potter and Weasley about halfway down the queue, and slid in behind them. 

“What's going on?” he asked when they turned to acknowledge his arrival. “He said there weren't any witnesses.”

“Not to the actual crime,” Weasley said. “But they left magical evidence behind. Scared the old lady who found him half to death.”

“Just a few antiques flying about on their own,” Potter clarified. “The Department of Mysteries wants to check for dark artifacts in the shop. Curse-Breakers are already on the scene.”

“Right.” Before Draco could ask any more questions, they reached the Apparition point, and he decided they could wait. Stepping forward, he braced himself for his second trip of the morning. 

-

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Someone's had themselves a temper tantrum, Harry thought, throwing antiques everywhere. Scattered debris of destroyed heirlooms littered the hardwood floors in every section of the showroom, broken glass and splintered wood, dented metal. With any luck, the poor bloke was better at keeping records than his predecessors in this bizarre spree. 

“Harry,” Ron said, gesturing toward where Detective Martin stood with two uniformed officers. “Let's get this over with.”

Beside them, Draco sighed then started in the opposite direction, to the section of the shop roped off with shiny yellow strips of plastic. Harry watched him go for a moment before following Ron. A path was cleared, winding through the shop to all relevant areas and various teams were setting up, preparing for their own investigations. 

“Detective,” Ron greeted, shaking the man's hand, and Harry nodded. “Any good news for us?” 

“Wish I could say so, boys. Nothing here is adding up, you know what I mean?” Martin balled his fists and jammed them against his hips as he turned to survey the scene. “The victim doesn't have any visible wounds, barely even looks dead—”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. He mimicked the pose, angling forward a fraction. 

“Well, mostly he just looks scared.” Mistaking Harry's frown for confusion, he chuckled. “You'll see what I mean. Some of the men think he musta been scared to death.”

Ron caught Harry's eye, grim understanding hardening the warm blue. But Martin was still talking, so he returned his attention. 

“You still got no signs of forced entry,” he said, pointing to the door. “And look at this place! Looks like a tornado hit it. Like everything was picked up, tossed about a bit, and dropped. Don't know how anyone could do that, but I tell you what. No way it's just one person.”

Avada Kedavra. Levitation. This could be done by one person as easily as ten, but Harry wouldn't correct the detective's assumption. Magic, though, was the silver lining, here. Magic could be traced. Even without Draco's procedures, tracking magical signatures was already one of the DMLE’s most valuable capabilities. 

“That does seem likely,” Harry lied, nodding solemnly. “Is there any lead on what was—” 

“Dad?” Bursting into the room through the open door of the shop, a young woman looked around frantically. “What's going on, here? Dad!” 

“Ma’am, you can't—” 

“Don't tell me what I can't do, this is my shop! Where's my father? Dad! Where are you, what's going on?” 

Harry started toward her quickly, even as Martin was signalling his officers to let her through. 

“Where is he?” she asked. “Where's my dad?” 

“Ma'am, I need you to remain calm,” Harry said, falling back on protocol and training. 

The words seemed to have a different effect than he was used to. The woman's eyes narrowed and she looked about ready to hit him. “What do you mean, remain calm?” she asked, ironically calm. Gesturing to the doorway, she went on, her voice rising by octave until she was shouting. “What about that suggests I was calm enough to remain calm? Where is my father, you spineless bureaucrat?” 

Spineless bureaucrat? He lifted a brow, but surrendered. “You're right, I apologise. As you can see, there's been a break-in. Your father was—” 

“He's dead, isn't he?” Now her face paled, one hand flying to her throat. Before Harry could reply, her expression hardened again. In a flurry of movement, she turned, kicking out and scattering debris across the room. “That bloody idiot! I told him! I told him to be careful! To get a bloody dog, for fuck’s sake! Of course they would kill him if they found him here!”

“They?” Harry asked, otherwise letting her rant. “You expected an attack?”

“Expected?” she snorted, whirling to face him. “Of course not. I anticipated a break-in, and who wouldn’t?”

“Did your father carry anything particularly valuable?” 

She snorted, again. “Would it matter if he did? That bloody book is the most valuable thing they’ve taken, so far, isn’t it? And you won’t find anything like that, this side of Diagon Alley.”

Lightning quick, Harry took her elbow and steered her toward the office off the side of the showroom, shooting Ron a hard look as they passed. He shooed away the officers collecting evidence, then closed the door before rounding on the woman, again.

“You’re a witch.” It wasn’t a question, clearly.

“And you’re Harry Potter, Auror extraordinaire,” she snapped, crossing her arms.

The door opened and Ron slid in, closely followed by Draco. “What’s wrong, Harry?” Ron asked, eyeing the woman. “Does she know something?”

“Elaine Woodrow,” Draco said, stilling just inside the door. 

“Draco Malfoy,” she sneered in return.

“This is the victim’s daughter?”

“You know her?” Harry asked at the same time.

“From school, yes.” He swallowed, then shook his head before turning to address Harry. “Our victim was a wizard, then?”

“No,” Elaine scoffed. “Mum married a Muggle. Don’t you know this? Why would you be here if you didn’t know we were connected to the wizarding world?”

“We were already on the case,” Ron explained. “Muggle victims or not. You said this was your shop?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, dropping her arms. “Mine and Dad's. How— how did he—” 

“Detective Martin's description implied the killing curse,” Harry offered, sympathetically. “We'll need to determine if anything was stolen to officially link this to the other robberies. Do you have a—”

“Yes, yes. I took care of all of the records. I'll bring them to you as soon as I—” She broke off with a choked sob. “When can I begin arrangements for the—” 

“We'll have your father's remains transferred to St. Mungo's as soon as possible,” Ron said, stepping forward to guide her into a chair by the enormous desk. “After cause of death is verified, they'll be released to you. It should only take a couple of days.”

Elaine nodded. “Do you— do you need anything else?” 

Harry and Ron turned to Draco then, where he still stood quietly beside the door. “Oh. No, I've gathered everything I need, for the moment. I'm sorry, Ms Woodrow, but I'll need to collect a sample of your DNA and fingerprints, as well as your magical signature. To eliminate them from the remaining evidence.” He glanced at Harry nervously, before continuing in a rush. “It can wait until you bring us your records, of course.”

“It's true, then?” she asked, giving a humourless laugh. “I heard the Aurors were doing things the Muggle way, now, but I didn't believe it. Especially when the Prophet said it was because of you, Malfoy.”

As Harry watched, a blank mask settled over Draco's face, and he inclined his head, respectfully. “We're learning,” was all he said before slipping back out of the office. 

-

Draco buried himself in work, unsure of what else to do. The arrival of Elaine Woodrow threw him off kilter, but work was something he could do, something he could use to focus his mind and settle his nerves. By the time Potter brought him a sandwich and a bag of crisps for lunch, he'd prepped the new evidence to be analysed, finished cataloguing all of the evidence from Scotland Yard, and added his potions to the new evidence. 

He jolted when Potter stroked a hand through his hair, pushing loose strands back, and murmured a reminder to eat but, otherwise, forgot everything but his task. Anything to avoid the remembered screams that threatened his concentration, the pleading eyes that filled his vision if he let his mind wander for even a moment. 

“You didn't eat,” Potter accused from the doorway, startling Draco so badly, he dropped the small glass container holding a hair sample. 

The fall wasn't enough to harm the container, but Draco lashed out, anyway. “Fuck, Potter,” he shouted. “Could you be any more—” Horrified, he shook himself. “I— I'm sorry. You startled— No.” Sucking in a breath, he sent Potter an apologetic look. “I'm sorry, I'm not doing well.”

Potter was watching him with a look somewhere between concern and fury. “Of fucking course you aren't,” he growled, crossing his arms. “Have you eaten at all today?” 

“Of course. I— er… I don't actually remember.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, taking a moment to massage his temples. “Yes. I had breakfast with Mother and—”

Potter's expression softened and he let his arms fall to his sides. “That's better than nothing. Come on, let's go.”

“What? I'm in the middle of—” he broke off when his eyes landed on the clock. His name hovered over LATE, as did Potter's.

“You need to eat, Draco. Come on, I'm taking you to dinner.” He held out a hand, but Draco shook his head. 

“I— Thank you, Potter, really,” he said, lowering his eyes. “I can't. Mother likely has dinner on the table.” 

“You're having dinner with your mother?”

“Yes?” Confusion coloured his voice and Draco's head tilted of it own volition. 

“On a Monday night?” Piercing green eyes narrowed and Potter planted his hands on his hips. “That's a terrible excuse, which is saying something since you never bothered with excuses before. What's wrong, Draco? You've been off since the shop this morning.”

Draco lowered his eyes. He didn't want to face the accusation lingering in their depths. “A man died, Potter,” he argued. “How should I be acting?” 

“No. No, you were fine when we got to the scene. It was that woman, Woodrow. You said you knew her, at school?”

Draco stiffened. “It's nothing, I'm fine,” he said, scowling.  Standing, he moved several paces away, hugging himself around the middle, his shoulders hunched. 

“Who is she, Draco?” 

The screams filled his ears again; Elaine Woodrow’s screams. Draco shuddered. The only way to distract his brain, now, was talking to Potter, it would seem. 

“Seventh year,” he began, his voice quiet. “I was expected to— to keep the younger students ‘in line,’” he spat, viciously. “I used— I had to— No.” Frustrated, he raked his hands through his hair and spun away, to pace the length of the lab. His lab. He'd worked bloody hard to get here, he reminded himself. He earned the life he'd made. 

Pausing, he turned to face Potter, his hands fisted at his sides but his chin held defiantly high. “It doesn't matter whether the choice was mine or not, I used the Cruciatus curse on students. All of them half bloods or Muggle born. Elaine Woodrow was one of them.”

Potter hissed in a breath. “Fuck, Draco.”

“So, I'm a bit out of sorts, forgive me. You should probably check on Elaine, I imagine it's worse for her.” Drained from his confession, Draco turned away from Potter and returned to his desk. “If you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Footsteps echoed hollowly in the quiet, followed by the sound of the door closing. Draco allowed his shoulders to slump, but the footsteps started again. Whipping around, he watched Potter’s approach, warily. Aside from the fact that Draco didn't know what to expect, now, Potter’s face was darkened by a furious expression. His hard eyes locked on Draco, every movement controlled. His hands shook and it seemed he would like nothing more than to ball them into fists and drive them through something solid. Draco hoped it wouldn't be him. 

“Wh—what are you still doing here?” he asked, haltingly. 

Potter didn't answer but, when he was close enough, he wrapped a hand around Draco's wrist and jerked him to his feet. Draco flinched, then jolted when strong arms came around him. Ragged breaths burst across the crook of his neck, rattled in his ear. 

“I'm sorry, Draco,” Potter murmured.

“You're sorry?” Draco asked, incredulously, trying to pull himself away. “Be sorry for Elaine. For all of the other children I—” he broke off on a sob, his head falling to Harry’s shoulder, his arms flying to hold him, tightly. 

“I am,” he answered. “But I'm also sorry for you. You were a child, too. And no child should be made to make the decisions you had to make. That any of us had to make.”

The sobs wracked his frame as Draco allowed himself to be held, consoled. His knees gave out, at some point, and Harry held him tighter. So Draco clung, his shoulders shaking, his hands clenched in the deep red Auror robes that his tears were staining. 

“I'm sorry,” he gasped. “Fuck, I'm so sorry! I— I didn't want—” 

“I know,” Harry hushed him, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “I know, baby. It's over.”

Slowly, they slid to the floor, still pressed tightly together. Draco didn't know how long they sat like that, but the tears dried on his cheeks, and his shoulders stilled. He still clung to Harry though, wondering silently when he became “Harry.”

Harry smoothed a hand over his forehead, forcing his hair back, and smiled down at him. “Feel better?” he asked. 

Draco nodded, short jerky movements, and pushed away to stand. He offered a hand to help Harry to his feet, then turned back to his desk. Strong arms slipped around him, again, and Harry rested his head on Draco's shoulder, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Draco didn't have the energy to flinch. 

“Have dinner with me, then? I'm starving.”

Now, he did flinch. “How can you— Harry, I'm not—” 

“Not what?” Harry asked. “A brilliant scientist? An infuriating prat? A gorgeous, fascinating man who, in spite of what he seems to believe, has to eat to stay alive?” 

Draco was quiet, unsure what to say. Unsure how much longer he could take the increasingly familiar manner with which Harry treated him. For Merlin’s sake, he was still draped over Draco's shoulders. “You— damn it,” he snapped, shrugging out from under him. “Potter, you have to stop that. Why do you keep doing that?” 

“What?” Har—  _ Potter _ asked, jerking back. “What did I do?” 

“What you've been doing for months! I thought you would stop, but you just keep doing it!” 

“Doing what, Draco? I don't know what you're talking about!” 

“I'm brilliant? Gorgeous? ‘Have dinner with me, Draco,’ ‘don't forget to eat, Draco!’” Somehow, they were standing toe to toe, Draco shouting and jabbing a finger into the broad chest a foot from his as Potter’s expression shifted from confusion to understanding, from understanding to shock, then from that to anger. “It isn't funny, Potter! It wasn't funny six months ago, and it isn't funny, now.”

“Funny?” Potter growled, lightning quick reflexes working overdrive to catch Draco's wrist as he made to jab, again. “You think is a joke? That I'm having a bloody  _ laugh _ ?” 

Using his grip on that wrist, Potter jerked him forward, caught him flush against his chest, and crushed his lips to Draco's, all before he could open his mouth to reply. And then, he couldn't come up with a scathing retort, if he tried. As he always knew it would, kissing Potter effectively fried every circuit in his brain, stopped every thought in its tracks. 

The heat he'd felt, before, built to an inferno, igniting Draco, consuming him. And, like any raging fire, it was over before he knew what happened. While he gasped for breath and grasped for a coherent thought, Potter shoved him away. 

“Fuck!” he groaned, wheeling away. “I— I'm sorry, Draco, that was…”

But Draco couldn't hear him. One hand found its way to his mouth, his eyes narrowed as he tried to process what his body knew had happened. Potter kissed him. Though his mind was reeling, that thought echoed, loud and clear. Harry Potter kissed him. That was too far to go for a laugh, wasn't it?

Finally, he looked at Harry, just as he turned on his heel and rushed from the lab, leaving Draco to smoulder in the ashes of what he thought he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	6. Chapter Five

“You don't understand, Ron,” Harry was saying as they approached the antique shop. “It was a shit thing to do; Draco was already feeling awful about Woodrow and I lost my shit because he didn't understand I was serious? Who does that?” 

They stopped in front of the door and Ron turned to face him. “Mate. It doesn't matter how it happened. It happened. If he wants it to happen again, that's up to him—” 

“But—” 

“Harry!” Groaning, he threw his shoulders back, slumping in exasperation. “You've been whinging for two days! If it bothers you that much, apologise. But, for Merlin’s sake, leave off. Just for an hour, please. We need to interview this bloke and I need you to focus.”

Frowning, Harry shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and rocked back on his heels. “You're right. I'm sorry, I know you're right. Let's do this; I'll talk to Draco tonight.”

“Good. Great. Now, what's this bloke’s name?” he asked, yanking the door open and striding into the shop as a jangling bell above them announced their entrance. 

“Kane, Maximillion Kane,” Harry supplied as they approached the counter. 

“What pretentious fuck names their kid Maximillion— Mr Kane!” Breaking off his muttered tirade to the muffled sound of Harry's laughter, Ron greeted the man with an exuberant handshake. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Kane.”

“L-l-likewise,” the man stuttered. 

If it weren't for the physical differences, Harry might have been reminded of Professor Quirrell. This man was stout, with mousy appearance and kind eyes. A book was clutched in pudgy hands above a long beard that trailed down the front of his tweed suit and accounted for ninety-five percent of the hair on his head. The rest were the few, tenacious hairs still clinging to his shiny head, combed over the top in what could only be described as wishful thinking. 

“A-and, who might, eh, you be?” Confusion wrinkled his forehead, all the way up to the comb-over, as his eyes flicked from Ron to Harry, and back. 

Ron cleared his throat, his voice taking on the low, mysterious professionalism of film noir private investigators. “I'm Special Agent Weasley. This is my associate, Special Agent Potter. MI5,” he clarified when the man's eyes widened. “We're here to discuss the break in, a few months ago.”

“Oh y-yes! Y-yes, of c-c-course. How, eh, can I h-help y-you, eh gentlemen?” 

“What can you tell us about that day?” Harry asked, elbowing Ron when he coughed to mask a chuckle. Pulling a notepad from his pocket, he waited, expectantly. “How did you know someone had broken in, were there any signs, what was taken? Anything you can remember.”

“W-well, now, let's s-see.” He lifted his hand to stroke his beard, thoughtfully. “Shou- eh, shouldn't be t-too difficult… There, eh, there weren't any  _ signs _ , per say. But, y-you know, I kn-know this shop, inside eh out. A-and that necklace lived right, eh right here for t-eh-twenty years!” He gestured to a jewellery mannequin, just beside the antique register on the counter. 

“So, you noticed it was missing immediately?” Ron asked. 

“Th-that’s right.”

Looking around the shop, Harry added “And nothing else was missing?” 

“N-n-not a th-thing.” Mr Kane shook his head, mournfully, and rested his substantial weight on the counter by his palms. “Sh-shame, really. Wish I'd kn-known the thing was worth s-s-something, when I bought it!”

The bell above the door jangled, again, announcing another customer. 

“Be with you in, eh, j-j-just a moment,” Mr Kane called. “I-is, eh, will that be all, g-gentlemen?” 

Nodding, Harry pulled a card from his pocket and  slid it across the counter. “If you remember anything else, just give us a call, yeah?” 

“Oh, of c-c-course. Best of l-luck.”

As soon as they reached the alley round the back of the shop, Ron doubled over, laughing. “Bloody hell!” he wheezed. “What is he like?” he asked, rolling his eyes dramatically. 

Harry chuckled. “For a moment, I thought he was taking the piss because of your PI voice.”

“Oi, I like that voice,” Ron argued, shoving at Harry's shoulder, but he was grinning. 

By the time they arrived back at the Ministry, Ron had stopped laughing, but was still shaking his head. Harry settled in to finish filing the reports from Scotland Yard, telling himself that he'd talk to Draco after work. 

-

It didn’t take long for Draco to realise his mistake. After picking his jaw up from the floor of his lab, it wasn’t even all that difficult. Potter was serious and Draco was a fool. Of course, it was still a joke and Harry was also a fool because, surely, any relationship between them was a fool's errand. But, it seemed, his intentions were… Genuine. 

Fuck. What was Draco supposed to do with that? 

The next afternoon, he waited for Harry to bring lunch, as he was wont to do. He didn’t and Draco kept working, sorting hair samples and matching his own to the evidence collected by the police officers. There was enough information to eliminate each victim from the crime scenes, luckily, but still no hit on who the perpetrator might be. 

When he looked up from his analyses, that night, his clock read LATE and his hand wobbled over a miniature bed. Harry never came. Sighing, he swept his gaze around the lab, wondering how it could seem so empty after one day without the man's presence. Without any potions to tend to, Draco gathered his notes, collected his belongings, and went home, where he kissed his sleeping son's head and fell into bed and a fitful night's sleep. 

The next day, he swallowed his pride and went to Harry's office to apologise… or pick at his chips, he wasn't sure which. Two days without lunch—and he'd worked straight through dinner the night before, as well—were beginning to take their toll. Only, he and Weasley were out, apparently interviewing victims. Which left work as Draco's only option. As such, he buried himself in it, starting and completing three potions before lunch. 

With his supply stocked, and work on their case at a standstill, he turned his attention to the other cases in his workload. None as interesting as the robberies, but interesting enough to hold his attention. 

By Friday, Draco properly missed him. 

Which was ridiculous. All Harry ever did was distract him. With his smiles and winks, the casual touches and easy friendship. None of which detracted from the heat of his gaze; consuming, emerald fire that, until Monday night, Draco had mistaken for something less… Just less. 

Growling, he spun away from his desk, the image of Harry burning behind his tightly closed eyelids. Even now, he thought, he sat in his lab, stewing instead of working. When he should be working, when Harry wasn't even there, the man distracted him. It wasn't as if he didn't have enough work, but his mind refused to settle, refused to focus. 

So, there he sat. 

In his lab. 

Stewing.

He had to do something. And, by lunch, he knew what. For the first time in recent history, he cast his stasis charms, collected his belongings, and left work early. Harry wanted him, that much was clear, assuming Draco hadn't completely ruined his chances. And there was no denying he wanted Harry. He could fix this; he just had to go and get him. 

After an early dinner, he readied Scorpius for bed, read him a tale from Beedle the Bard, and tucked him beneath the pale blue blanket Narcissa bought for him earlier that week. 

When that was done, and with only about an hour of watching the small chest rise and fall with the rhythm of sleep, Draco padded downstairs to the receiving room with a bottle of wine and two glasses. One short Floo call and an exorbitant amount of whinging later and Pansy joined him, wrapped in a satin dressing gown with fuzzy slippers on her feet. 

“This had better be important,” she yawned. “I was supposed to be asleep an hour ago.”

“Oh please,” Draco snorted. “It isn't even ten.” Passing her a glass of wine, he settled on the sofa facing the fire. “Besides, you'll be happy to hear that I've summoned you for so rare an occurrence, you'll be begging me to let you help.”

Holding up one finger, Pansy lifted her glass and swallowed half its contents, then nodded, setting the glass on a low end table. “Okay, go.”

“As it turns out, you were correct.”

“I'm always correct, Draco. You'll have to be more specific.”

“This is difficult enough,” Draco said, cringing. “Suffice to say, Potter’s attentions were genuine.”

As he watched, a slow grin spread across Pansy’s face, and she threw her head back to laugh, falling into an armchair and holding her sides. “I knew it!” she screeched. “What happened, tell me everything!” 

“He kissed me.” Draco said, reluctantly. “I accused him of poking fun and he kissed me.” Pansy gave him a sympathetic look and he scowled. Grumbling, he crossed his arms and glared at the his wine glass. “Anyway, he apologised, then left, and I haven't seen him since.”

“You're an absolute idiot, Draco.”

“Yes, I'm aware, thank you. Now, are you going to help me, or not?” 

“Of course I'll help you, I'm not heartless.” Rising, she headed toward the door and through. “Come along, darling. We need to visit Wardrobe.”

An hour later, Draco stood back from the mirror hanging inside his wardrobe. He'd scoffed when Pansy insisted on black. Surely, he should wear something better than funeral garb in an attempt to woo Harry. But insist, Pansy did. And it wasn't a terrible look. Rather than the dour, pretentious knob he was in school, he looked… Mysterious. Not quite human. 

With his hair hanging loose, he expected to see his father staring back from the mirror. Instead, he saw his mother. Elegant and poised, and just a little uncertain. A slow smile spread across his face and he turned to find Pansy grinning at him. 

“He won't know what hit him,” she promised. 

-

“I've really cocked it up, haven't I?” Harry asked, nursing his third pint and looking around his group of friends. Most wore sympathetic expressions, and a few avoided his gaze, altogether. “Cheers.” 

“Chin up, Harry,” Luna said, with a soft smile, as she reached across the table to take his hand. “Things aren't always as dreary as they seem.”

Harry found a smile for her—he found it was always easiest, with Luna, to smile when every part of him raged against it—and turned his hand under hers, gripping it briefly. “Thanks Luna.”

“You're welcome. Besides, you still have time to talk to him.” At his questioning glance, she nodded toward the doorway of the White Lion. 

Harry stared, frozen in place even as his fingers itched to reach across the space and touch. It was Draco, prodded through door by Pansy and Blaise while Greg trailed behind. Unable to turn away, he had no choice but to stare. Draco looked fantastic. Colour rode high on his cheekbones, likely a result of wrestling with Pansy and Blaise, and his hair was left loose to fly around his shoulders and fall in his eyes, pin straight and so pale, it was almost white. Which complimented the solid black attire quite nicely. Long legs clad in black denim and shirt that seemed to cling in some places and flow free, in others. 

The effect was ethereal and Draco seemed to glow. Folding his arms over his chest, he sent Pansy a death glare as Blaise directed him, from behind, to follow her to the bar. Greg, on the other hand, was making a beeline for the table Harry and his friends occupied. 

“Hullo,” he said, slumping into a seat. “How's everyone doing, t’night?” 

A round of groans circled the table, startling both Harry and Greg. 

“Harry has been regaling us with his tales of woe,” Susan wailed dramatically and dropped her head to the table with a thunk. 

“I don't know what you're on about,” Seamus argued. “This is fascinating.”

“Well,” Neville said, smirking behind his pint.” I'm sure it's about to be, anyway.”

“What's going on?” Greg asked. “Draco hasn't said a word since we met him at the Manor. Well, ‘cept that he had something to do and needed us with him.”

Harry groaned, abandoning his pint to bury his face in his hands. 

“Oooh,” Ginny squealed, leaning half over the table. “What's he got in mind?” 

But Greg merely shrugged. “Dunno. He didn't say.”

Behind Harry, someone cleared their throat, pointedly. Harry didn't move. He didn't want to turn around, didn't need to see Draco's eyes as he was hexed into next week. It wasn't until Hermione placed a gentle hand on his arm that Harry turned. 

“Draco,” he said, inclining his head slightly, eyes fixed on the lip Draco was worrying between his teeth. He knew how those lips tasted and, try as he might to push the memory away, it refused to fade. 

“Harry,” Draco began. He lowered his eyes for a moment, then lifted them back to Harry's. “We— we should talk.”

Sighing, he rose, casting nervous glances at his friends, and followed Draco to a quiet corner of the pub. 

“Draco, I'm—”

“Listen, Harry, I—”

Draco chuckled and ducked his head, his hair falling in a platinum curtain over his face. As Harry watched, he caught the edges of the curtain with his thumb and little finger, combing it back and leaving his hand on the back of his neck, for a moment. The movement bared the long line of his throat and Harry's eyes were drawn to the delicate pulse beat there. 

“I think I know what you're going to say,” Draco was saying. “So, if I could, I think I should go first.”

Harry winced, dragging his eyes back to Draco's, but nodded. 

“As I'm sure you can understand, coming back to England was difficult, for me. I didn't know exactly what reception to expect. From the wizarding world, from the Ministry, least of all from you.”

“Draco,” Harry interrupted, exasperated. “You're rambling.”

“Yes, sorry. The point is, I misjudged you, and I apologise.”

Harry smiled, a small, sad little thing, and nodded. “Thank you. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for my reaction, Monday night. That was— I shouldn't have done that, and I'm sorry.” Dragging in a deep breath, he offered his hand, squeezed when Draco took it. “I'll try to be more professional, in the future.”

“You'll…” Grey eyes widened and Draco's grip on his hand tightened. “Harry, that's not—” 

“No, Draco, you're right. You've worked very hard to get where you are, and the last thing you need is me making your life more difficult. So, I'm sorry, and I'll—” 

With a growl of frustration, Draco snaked a hand around Harry's neck and pulled. Before he could process what was happening, Draco's lips were on his, the hand he still held releasing to fist in Harry's tee shirt, dragging him closer. Smooth lips slanted under his, a hot tongue slid along the seam of his own and, when they fell open, the flavour of Draco burst on his tongue, as thrilling and intoxicating as before. But this… This was different. Where before Draco stilled, he came alive, pressing against Harry, brushing their lips together, tangling his hand in the mop of hair he once mocked. 

On a sharp inhale, Harry wrapped both arms around Draco's waist, hauling him against his chest, and took. Every gasping breath, every swipe of the honey sweet tongue against his. Every shift of hips that brought them into complete contact, dragging their cocks together and sending heat racing through him. 

Burying one hand in the silken hair at the nape of Draco's neck, he pulled away, gasping for breath, and pressed their foreheads together. “Fucking hell, Draco.”

Chuckling, Draco slid his hands over Harry's chest, around his hips, before settling them on his arse. “That wasn't nearly as easy as I expected it to be.”

That startled a laugh from him, and he brushed his lips over Draco's again, then again. “Have dinner with me,” he murmured. 

Draco pulled back a bit, one brow winging up. “I don't think so, Potter.” Then he grinned, before Harry had time to process the rejection. “But, I'm free for breakfast…”

-

They landed in the dark and Harry immediately stumbled, pressing him back against a door. He rolled his hips, grinding their cocks together through layers of fabric and Draco laughed, wrapping his arms around broad shoulders. Hitching one leg as high as he could over Harry's hip, he thrilled when a hand moved to grip it, holding him firmly in place. 

“Harry,” he whimpered when Harry's lips fell to his neck, sucking lovebites in the sensitive flesh and scraping his teeth along the muscles that strained as Draco threw his head back. “Bed. A-  _ ah _ ! Bed, Potter!” 

Much as he appreciated the solid nature of the door at his back, Harry's breath, lips, tongue on his throat, collar bone, shoulder, Draco wanted a bed. He wanted to feel Harry move over him, wanted to look down from above him. For too long, he told himself it was impossible, that they'd never be like this. Yet, there they were, writhing, gasping together. Harry's hand wriggled its way into his trousers—not an easy task—and Draco groaned as it cupped his arse, massaging as best it could in the limited space. In desperation, he buried both hands in Harry's hair, tangled them there, and yanked his head back, exposing the dark throat and scruffy beard to his own hungry mouth. 

“Bed, Potter,” he said, again, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Take me to bed.”

This time, though, he complied. Still holding the leg against his hip, Harry used the other to lift him, bracing against the door for balance until Draco locked his ankles in place. With both hands firmly on his arse, Harry turned, wobbling slightly as he took a step, two… 

And fell. 

For a split second, Draco panicked. Before he could even begin to flail, though, he was pressed between Harry and what could only be his mattress. The softness under him, the solid weight of Harry above, was nearly enough to forgive the quiet chuckling in his ear. Nearly. 

“Fucking hell, Potter,” Draco scowled, slapping at Harry's shoulder. 

Harry laughed, lighting the tip of his wand and tossing it to the bedside table. “So impatient, Draco,” he tsked, nipping at Draco's jaw. 

“Aren't you?” he asked, nerves finally rearing their ugly little heads. “You've only been chatting me up for months. I thought—” 

“Of course I'm impatient,” Harry murmured, interrupting the flow of anxiety. 

As if to illustrate, he reached between them, grasped the clasp of Draco's trousers, and yanked them open. Draco would have gasped, tried to even, but Harry's lips were there, covering his and swallowing the sound. Then he was up, pulling the trousers down, and Draco's pants with them, before turning to the buttons of his shirt. 

“It's just, it's been months,” he said, parroting Draco's words. “I've had months to imagine what I would do to you, given the opportunity. And here it is.” As he spoke, he tugged the fabric away, running his hands over every bit of flesh he could reach. “And I can't remember a damned thing. Luckily, I do know how to do this, so I'm damned well going to do it right.”

With something resembling a growl, he took Draco's cock in his fist and locked his lips over one pebbled nipple, simultaneously. Draco cried out, bowing his back against the onslaught of sensation. His hips bucked. One hand fisted in the bedding, the other in Harry's hair, as he took a moment to let himself feel. 

But it wasn't enough. Rough denim scraped along his skin, reminding Draco that Harry was still fully clothed. That wouldn't do. He raked a hand down the broad back, as far as he could reach, and grasped at his tee shirt, dragging it up and over his shoulders. Harry grunted, releasing him long enough to pull the shirt over his head before lying back down, stretching over Draco's chest and grinding his hips, again. 

The shift put Draco in a better position to grasp at his jeans, allowing him to tug fruitlessly at the stiff fabric. “Off,” he gasped, straining to remove them, himself. “Take these off, for fuck’s sake!”

Harry laughed, low and raspy. “You take them off,” he murmured, nipping at Draco's jaw. 

Yes. Yes, he could do that. 

Hooking a leg around one denim clad thigh, Draco bucked his hips, wrestling Harry to his back and rising over him. Tossing his hair out of his face, he bent and pressed his lips to Harry's skin, brushing them over the prickly hairs that trailed from his navel to disappear into his jeans while his hands worked to free his cock, already hard and straining the seams. 

Without bothering to lower the jeans any further than necessary, Draco shimmied down, settling between Harry's legs and nosed at the shaft, inhaling the musty scent. 

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry moaned, finally losing that bloody control as his hands fisted in Draco's hair, urging him on. 

Smirking to himself, Draco poked his tongue out to tease at the head before sliding it from tip to base and back. When Harry arched back, thrusting instinctively against his lips, Draco took him into his mouth, swallowing half his length at once. Every groan, every thrust sent ripples of desire through Draco, little bursts of pride that sang through his veins and causing his own leaking cock to throb. 

Unwilling to pull away and risk losing those sounds, Draco rolled his hips against the bed, seeking more friction than the duvet beneath him could offer. He propped himself on his knees and grasped his cock with one hand, his other wrapped around the base of Harry's as he continued to suck, rising and falling with a kind of fervour he hadn’t experienced since his first time. 

“Draco,” Harry panted, tugging at his hair. “Fuck, Draco, stop. I— I'm going to— Not yet, I want to touch you.” 

Draco allowed him to lift his head, clambering up to take his lips, instead. Harry flipped them over again, ghosting his hands over Draco's stomach, his chest, his thighs, and trailed his lips after them, murmuring nonsensical praise with every kiss, with every touch, with every breath. 

Draco wanted to ignore the words, to focus on the feeling when Harry finally closed his lips around his cock. They were too much, overwhelming in their sincerity, and Draco couldn't bring himself to believe them. But he could experience, he could enjoy. And he did. 

Without warning, one slick digit probed at his entrance, pushing slowly through the ring of muscle, and Draco lost himself completely. Pleading words fell from his lips and his hair tangled beneath him as he threw his head from side to side. Groaning around his mouthful, Harry shifted, adding another finger and curling them up to press against Draco's prostate. 

And Draco came, his shoulders pressing deep into the mattress and his mouth hanging open on a silent scream as his hips lifted off of it altogether. Harry kept pumping, swallowing Draco's spunk, and sucked through the shudders wracking his body. 

When he finally collapsed, Harry was still in him, still thrusting and flexing his fingers as he rose on his knees and fisted his own cock, biting his lip as his eyes roamed over Draco's limp form. A self-satisfied smile spread Draco's cheeks and he lifted heavy hands to finger his own nipples and thrust backward, driving Harry's fingers deeper and moaning wantonly. 

Harry's eyes widened, his hands faltered, so Draco did it again, and again, letting his eyes flutter shut. Fuck, but that power—to shock, to arouse—felt at least as good as the fingers fucking him open. 

“Come on, Harry,” he moaned, arching off the bed, again. “Come for me. Come  _ on _ —”

Before he could finish the command, Harry let out a grunt, then another, as his release splashed over Draco's hip and groin, pooling on his stomach. And he watched, his eyes still wide and shining in the dim wandlight, his body still spasming with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He watched as Draco trailed his hands down to catch a bit of the cooling fluid and smear it across his belly, up his chest, his own eyes locked on Harry's. 

“Fucking hell,” Harry breathed, pulling his hand free and falling over Draco. 

The kiss was more breath than lips, more teeth than tongue, but Draco gave as good as he got, his fingers sliding over sweat dampened skin and into wild hair to pull him closer, in spite of the weight that inhibited his breathing. Harry seemed to sense that, though, and rolled them so they lay side by side, lingering over the moment. His hands roamed as they finally pulled apart, pressing softer, slower kisses as they caught their breath. 

“My god,” Harry groaned, then grinned against Draco's lips. “I really wish we'd done that sooner.”

“Patience is a virtue, Potter,” Draco murmured, opening one eye to peer at him. “And you think I'm impatient?” His voice was thick, heavy with impending sleep and the receding effects of alcohol in his blood. It took an enormous effort to open both eyes and meet Harry's. “Besides, you were clearly too subtle to get anywhere with your flirting.”

“Aww,” Harry laughed, tightening his arms around Draco's waist. “You think I'm subtle?” 

“As an erumpant in New York City.” Draco yawned, snuggling closer. He'd have to leave, eventually; Mother had a recurring appointment at the spa in the morning and he had a son to care for. 

But, for now, he was spent. He could do with a few hours sleep before trying to Apparate again. A soft snore told him that Harry had the same idea so Draco smiled, pressed a kiss to the scar bisecting his forehead, and closed his eyes. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	7. Chapter Six

The house was in a Muggle neighborhood, quiet and quaint. It wasn't a place anyone expected to be the scene of something so magical. Years before, when people still noticed their neighbours, when they could still see us, Mother brought me here. I don't remember that time; the house was all I knew. 

It was a nice house, I've learned, although I couldn't see it at the time. The walls were a pale yellow, the colour of whipped butter, but they were streaked with mould and lined with cobwebs. And the furniture had a look that suggested it was nice when it was new. I've only ever seen it damp and moth eaten. The carpeting was lighter in the beginning, but no one ever cleaned it so, over time, it became a muddy brown. 

But it was never so ugly to me as it was that night.

She was screaming. A primal, guttural sound that chilled the marrow in my bones but left me rooted to the spot. Even though I was already pinned to the wall by her clenching fist, even though I knew what would follow, what pain to expect. And then she whirled around, that awful scream echoing around me again, and leveled her wand at my heart. Cast. 

The pain that ripped through me was familiar, but one never becomes accustomed to such things. I fell to my knees. I think I screamed. I'm sure I shit myself. And moments later, an eternity, I lay there panting, sobbing. 

“I'm sorry,” I whimpered. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”

“It was your fucking job to know, you worthless piece of shit!” 

This time, I only whimpered. She was right, after all. It was my responsibility to case the mark. To ensure there would be no witnesses when we arrived. It didn't matter that I didn't even know shops could have flats above them, I should have known it was there. 

“That Muggle is dead because of you!” she screeched. “Are you happy? You're just like him! Filthy half-blood!” 

Him. Every time I failed, everything I did wrong, she would insist I was like him. She always said I was too young to remember, but he was the one who killed Lucas. That used to scare me. I'm Lucas. But it became clear she was talking about a different Lucas. The Lucas Voldemort killed years ago. 

The Lucas Mother loved. 

Still sobbing, I rolled to my side in an attempt to stand. She was still screaming, pacing the length of the living room, ripping at her hair and muttering to herself. There was no point arguing; there never was. But, if she was deep enough in her own shouted thoughts —as they passed her mind, they passed her lips—I could usually slip, unnoticed, to my room.

I could almost remember a time when she was… Not happy, exactly, but not this. This angry shell of a human being. There were times that, when she looked at me, I believed she loved me. She still got angry. She would shout that it was wrong, everything was wrong. She said that Lucas wouldn't do it that way, asked why I didn't want her to be happy. 

Everything changed when I started school. Those moments trickled, then stopped coming altogether. The first time she hit me, she sobbed apologies, swearing she wouldn't do it again. For a while, things were better. But it wouldn't last. It couldn't, I know now. 

When it happened again, my teachers noticed. I was quiet, I suppose. Withdrawn. They asked questions, requested a meeting with Mother. 

And she beat me. 

I never went to school again and, soon after, Mother moved my bed to the cellar while I slept. I was terrified, waking up in the dark, cold room on a thin mattress, but I was more terrified of asking her why she did it. And I could come and go from there. I couldn't leave the house, but I wasn't confined to that dark, damp place, either. After about a week, she hid our house from Muggles, muttering about the Death Eaters. Insisting she would protect her son this time. I didn't understand, but that's not surprising. I was seven. Mother shut us both up in that house. She didn't cook, she never cleaned. Most days, she didn't even leave her bedroom. 

Except to visit Lucas’, down the corridor. My old bedroom. The last time I saw it, there was a cot in the middle of the room, the little mattress made up with pale blue and white, and Mother sat in a corner, rocking and crying. I thought maybe she was planning on having another baby, another Lucas, but she never did.

Slowly, not even trying to stand anymore, I crawled toward the kitchen, toward the cellar door, wincing as the pain spiked in my knees and the palms of my hands with every forward shuffle. But Mother wasn’t as preoccupied as I expected. The room went quite a moment before-

“ _ Crucio _ !”

And sound ceased to matter, escape ceased to matter, all importance soaked up by the single-minded determination to fend off pain that could not be willed away.

-

The first thing Harry was aware of, upon waking, was the pain. The headache attempting to split his skull open. Then it was the overwhelming pressure of his bladder. Rushing to the toilet, he searched his medicine cabinet for a hangover potion while aiming vaguely for the toilet bowl. Then swore. 

Fucking hell, why did he never remember to restock his hangover potions? For someone who got pissed at least once a week, one would think it'd be an easy thing to remember. 

Groaning, he stumbled back to his bedroom, swearing again when he tripped over his jeans, pooled on the floor beside the bed. Scowling, he lifted them, his memories trickling in through the haze of pain and annoyance. 

Draco. Draco in the pub. Draco in the alley. Draco in Harry's bed. 

His gaze whipped up, scanning the bed. But it was empty. Empty, but not unslept-in. Harry almost never made his bed, let alone half of it. But that meant Draco left. He was there and he left. Without saying goodbye. 

Dejected, Harry sank to the edge of the bed, viciously ignoring the throbbing in his head. Had Draco changed his mind? Surely he wasn't that bad a shag… he was good enough for two rounds, he remembered. The sensation of sinking into Draco, being surrounded by him, sent heat blazing to his cock and Harry shook his head to fend off the memories. 

There was only one thing to do. Dragging his trousers on, Harry rooted around until he found a tee shirt that didn't smell too bad, pulled it over his head, stepped into his shoes and, after collecting his wand, Apparated away. It was only as he approached the gate at Malfoy Manor that he began to second guess himself. 

What if Draco didn't want to see him? What if last night was all he wanted and they'd have to go back to—

A resounding crack ripped through the quiet of the manor grounds, startling Harry and announcing the arrival of an elderly Malfoy house elf. Well, that settled the matter. Her bat-like ears flopped as she dipped into a low bow at the sight of him and he was left no escape route. 

“Master Potter, sir,” she greeted him in a gravelly voice, before opening the gates with a wave of her hand. “How can Jinx be helping?”

“Hello Jinx,” Harry said, finding a smile for the stern looking creature. “I need to speak with, er, Master Malfoy?” 

Her large eyes narrowed, suspiciously. “Master Malfoy is being in Azkaban, Mast-” 

“Shit, I knew that was wrong. I need to see Draco.” 

“Oh, I sees. Master Draco is tending to Master Scorpius. Follow Jinx.” Turning on one dirty heel, she set a slow, halting pace, leading Harry up the drive and into the grand foyer of the manor. “You waits here, Jinx is fetching Master Draco.”

With another crack, she disappeared, leaving Harry's ears ringing. In a conscious effort to distract his mind, he looked around the foyer, instead. The cool marble floors and staircase were framed by warm, dark wood and offset with long, elegantly draped cloth and polished light fixtures. The whole room seemed more inviting than the last time he'd seen it. 

But it wasn't working. The ringing was getting louder, more defined, and Harry dropped his head to his hands. It didn't even sound like ringing, anymore. It sounded like… Crying. 

Looking up, he found the source of the sound at the top of the grand staircase. There stood Draco, eyeing him warily, a small bundle held against one shoulder, quivering as it loosed a series of piercing shrieks. 

“Harry?” Draco called over the noise. Harry looked at him, really looked. He was wearing loose pyjama bottoms and nothing else. Long elegant feet flexed as he moved down the stairs, lean arms held his bundle tightly, instinctively rocking the fussing baby. His hair still fell free, tangled around his face, and his tired eyes seemed sunken into dark circles. “What are you doing here?”

Harry opened his mouth, but “You have a baby,” was all that came out. 

Grey eyes narrowed as Draco frowned. “Yes, Potter, I'm well aware. What are you doing here?” 

“Where did you get a baby?” he asked, numbly. Draco opened his mouth to reply, likely with scorn, but Harry plunged ahead. “And what's wrong with it, for fuck’s sake?” 

That stilled whatever he was about to say, and Draco's eyes flicked to the enraged child. His face seemed to crumple and his eyes became pleading. “I don't know!” he wailed. “He's been like this since he woke up and nothing I've done has helped. I was just about to go to St. Mungo’s, but he won't stop screaming long enough for me to get dressed.”

Harry stepped forward, ignored the renewed pounding in his head, the way his heart clenched, and lifted the blanket to study the red face, squashed in agony. He also ignored the jolt when he recognised the watery grey eyes and sweaty blond hair. Of course this was Draco's child, why else would Draco have him? “He's, what, a year old?” 

“Y-yes. Potter, what are you-” his arms tightened as Harry moved to take him. Before long, he released his hold, worry wrinkling his brow. “Careful! Don't drop him,” he warned. 

“I have never dropped a baby,” Harry scoffed, turning him in his arms to cradle his head and jiggle him, gently. “And he doesn't need a hospital, although I need a hangover potion, if you've got any.” 

Crooking a finger, Harry cast a wandless Scourgify and offered it to the baby, nudging it into his mouth when he opened it to let out another wail. The result was instantaneous; the sound stopped and big eyes locked on Harry's as two little teeth gnawed at his flesh. 

“He's teething,” he said, simply. “I assume this is the Master Scorpius you've been tending to?”

“Y-yes. How did you-” 

Harry looked up to see awe shining in Draco’s face. He smiled, softly, then grimaced when even that set his head off. “A hangover potion, Draco? Please?” 

“Oh! Of course, I'm sorry. Jinx,” he called, turning when the little elf appeared at his side. “Could you fetch a hangover potion for our guest?” 

“Right away, Master Draco,” she answered, bowing low before disappearing, again. 

“You have a baby,” Harry said, again, staring in wonder at the little creature in his arms. His face was clearing, but the red lingered around wet eyes as little fingers gripped Harry's. Realisation dawned, suddenly. “You had plans,” he said. “You always had plans.”

“Yes,” Draco replied, crossing his arms. 

“You could have said you had a baby to take care of.” He tried to frown, but it was difficult when little Scorpius - and what the hell kind of name was that? - began gurgling softly. Except, where there was a baby, there was usually a… “Where's his mother?”

Draco snorted. “Likely in Acapulco, spending her maintenance on alcohol and cabana boys,” he sighed. “I think I can take it from here.”

“You're going to let him chew on your finger for the rest of the day?” Harry scoffed. “Besides, he likes me. Don't you, Scorp?” Scorpius gurgled again and Harry shot Draco a dark look, worry clenching his heart this time. “You look like you could use a nap. Point me to a sofa and we'll be okay for a while.”

“I don't need a nap,” Draco argued. “I assume you came here for a reason?” 

“Oh, right.” Harry narrowed his eyes until he was scowling at Draco over the baby in his arms. “You left,” he accused. “Without saying a bloody-” 

“Here you is, Master Potter,” Jinx said, offering a small vial as she popped into existence at his side. 

“Thank you.” Putting his rant on hold, he moved to accept it, unsure which hand to use. “Erm, Draco?” 

Draco eyed him for a moment, clearly content to let him suffer. But Harry wasn't above fighting dirty. Poking out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout, he let his eyes droop and gave a piteous whimper. 

“Oh, for the love of— Thank you, Jinx,” Draco said, taking the phial and uncorking it. He held it out, and Harry shrugged, still utterly handless. 

“Here, just put in,” he said, then opened his mouth. 

“No, Potter, that's ridiculous.”

“I still don't have any hands, Draco. Come on.” And he opened his mouth again and waited. 

“Gods, you're impossible!” But he lifted the phial to Harry’s lips. 

Sealing his lips around the lip of the little bottle, his eyes firmly on Draco's, he craned his neck and swallowed. Before he'd even begun to lower his head again it was beginning to clear, aches he wasn't even aware of were easing. Finished, he tipped the phial between his teeth, gesturing for Draco to take it from him. 

He did not. Crossing his arms, again, he leveled a glare at Harry, and tapped one foot impatiently. “Don't look at me, you're the idiot who thought this would work.”

“C’mon, Dwaco! I ca’t tawk wi’ dis in my mouf!” 

“Well, perhaps you should have thought of that sooner.” Shifting his gaze, he gave a jerky, one armed shrug. “I left a note, you know? I didn't just leave without a word. Mother had plans this morning and I never told her I wasn't coming home.”

Harry rolled his eyes, desperately trying to to squash the grin fighting its way onto his face. Draco left him a note. Making a mental note to look for it when he got home, he surrendered and passed Scorpius back to Draco, where he snuggled into one bare shoulder again, then pulled the phial from his lips. 

“Cheers,” he said, and lost the fight against his grin when Draco smirked. “I suppose I should apologise for my behaviour, Monday night.” Shuffling his feet, Harry avoided meeting his gaze.

“You did, already,” Draco sighed, popping his own finger into Scorpius’ mouth when he began to fuss, again. “I certainly hope you aren't planning on leaving me alone, again.”

Harry frowned, recalling what he'd said the night before. Acting professional, leaving Draco alone… Slowly, a smile spread across his face, softer this time, teasing. “You don't want me to leave you alone?” 

“Not in the least.” Draco's eyes were guarded when Harry finally lifted his own to meet them, but his chin jutted out defiantly. 

Harry's heart swooped and he took a step closer. Then another. “Good,” he said, nodding slightly and snaking an arm around Draco's waist. “Draco? 

“What?”

“I'm going to kiss you, now.”

His eyes widened but he nodded, leaning forward. “Oh. O-okay,” he breathed. 

Hesitating only a moment, Harry leaned in, capturing his lips and swallowing the sigh that slipped through them as Draco fell further forward. He lifted one hand to bury it in the mess of pale blond, to tangle it there as he groaned, angling the kiss and sliding his tongue along the seam of Draco's lips. The flavour of him, sharp and sweet, was intoxicating, compelling Harry to press closer, delve deeper. 

Then it changed, softened. The desperation of the night before, the heartbreak of waking alone melted away beneath the reality of holding Draco in his arms. Sighing, sinking into the sensation, Harry felt Draco's free hand flex on his hip, slipping up to his waist and around to hold him gently in place. Then Scorpius whimpered, squirming, and Draco pulled back a fraction, lust warring with guilt in his eyes. 

“Have dinner with me,” Harry murmured against his lips, his voice low, holding Draco as close as he dared with a baby between them. 

“I have—” 

“Plans, I know. Get a sitter.” Ducking his head, he trailed his tongue along the elegant line of Draco's throat. “Please.”

“I don't—” 

“Friday night,” he insisted, pressing a kiss to his lips, again. “Eight o'clock.”

“You just don't believe I eat dinner,” Draco quipped, resting his forehead against Harry's. 

“Damn right,” Harry laughed, then groaned. “Shit, not Friday. I have to collect Teddy right after work.” He frowned, working an idea around in his head as Draco snorted a laugh. “What about Saturday? We could have lunch on Diagon Alley with Teddy and Scorp,” he suggested.

“Scorpius,” Draco corrected, amusement twinkling in his eyes. 

“What the hell kind of name is that?” 

“What the hell kind of name is Draco? It's a family tradition, you twat.” He swatted at Harry's shoulder before pulling away. “Saturday is fine; I look forward to seeing Edward. And Scorpius likes ice cream.”

Harry laughed. “Oh, good. I was afraid he was a sorbet kind of kid.” 

“He likes sorbet, too, but ice cream will suffice.” Grinning, he dodged another kiss. “Now go home, Potter.”

Still chuckling, Harry backed toward the door. Movement to his left drew his eyes to the corridor near the staircase and he grinned, refusing to feel self conscious. 

“Good to see you, Mrs Malfoy,” he said, with a wink, then darted through the door as Draco spun around to face his mother. If the war with Voldemort taught him anything, it was to pick his battles. 

-

Draco cringed as Narcissa approached him, a small, knowing smile sparkling in her eyes. When she reached his side, Scorpius whimpered again and held his arms out to her, beseeching. 

“Oh, darling,” she cooed, taking him. “Did the grown-ups forget about you?”

“Mother, what are you doing home?” Draco asked, a flush already heating his cheeks. 

“It's midday, Draco. I've been home for an hour. There, there, my sweet,” she said, returning her attention when Scorpius began crying softly. “It's nothing to worry about. Papa still loves you.”

Effortlessly elegant, even with a baby in one arm, Narcissa waved her wand and produced a small wooden ring. Without a word, she slipped it into Scorpius’ mouth and began rocking him, gently while Draco stared. 

“You knew he was teething?” he asked, incredulous. When she started down the corridor toward one of their many sitting rooms, he followed closely. “Mother, he's been screaming since dawn. Why didn't you tell me?” 

“You didn't know? He is a bit behind, but plenty of children begin teething around his age.”

“How would I have known that?” Draco grumbled, conveniently forgetting he had indeed known that. He read about the developmental steps of early childhood before Scorpius was born, but that was nearly a year ago. A lot can happen in a year. And, of course, he wasn't thinking clearly when he awoke to the sounds of his son's discomfort. 

“Yes, well, I can see you had other matters on your mind.” As she sat, positioning Scorpius on her knees, her smile finally curled her lips. “And it's long overdue, if you ask me.” 

“No one asked you,” Draco scoffed, but he smiled as well, running a hand over his son's head before dropping himself into an armchair across from her. “Besides, it was nothing.”

One pale brow winged up and Narcissa snorted. Elegantly. “It didn't look like nothing,” she said. 

“Well, it was. Potter just came by to check on me.”

“I wonder what prompted him to do so on a Saturday morning.” She smirked, her eyes dancing, and Draco huffed. 

“How should I know?” he asked with a petulant pout. 

“You were out late, last night.” She stated it casually, but Draco knew better than to believe that. “What time did you return?” 

“Mother, please.”

“Very well,” she sighed, turning her attention to the now content Scorpius. “Papa doesn't like when we tease him, does he? Mr Potter didn't spend the night, then?”

Even though the assumption was technically incorrect, Draco squirmed in his seat, drawing his knees up to his chest and crossing his arms over them. “Of course not. Do you think I'd bring a man home when I share a room with a toddler?”

“There are plenty of rooms in this house.”

“No, Mother, he did not spend the night.”

“Draco, darling, sit up straight,” Narcissa scolded, and he felt an ingrained urge to follow the order. So he wiggled his bum lower, hunching his shoulders further. She hummed her disapproval, but Draco felt like his own person, at least marginally, for the rebellion. “And how long has this ‘nothing’ been happening?” 

Gods, he couldn't believe he was having this discussion. With his mother, of all people. He grit his teeth but answered the question. “To the extent that he barges in, unannounced, to save the day? That's a new development.” She eyed him speculatively and Draco sighed. “Right, the kissing. About a week. Although, apparently, Potter has been trying to gain my affection for some time.”

“‘Harry,’ dear,” Narcissa corrected. “You don't kiss a man like that and continue to refer to him by his surname.” 

Scorpius yawned, drawing her attention, and she repositioned him in her arms. Draco summoned Jinx to bring a bottle of milk and, when she returned, held his hands out to take the baby. 

Smoothing her robes out, Narcissa fixed Draco with a curious look. “Do you suppose this ‘nothing’ might become ‘something?’” she asked. “I'm quite fond of Mr Potter, myself.”

“Mother,” Draco whinged. “You hardly know the man.”

“I know enough.” She smiled serenely, tugging an answering smile from Draco. “Why don't you invite him to dinner? We can get acquainted.” 

“We'll see. I don't know how long this is going to last, so I see no point in scaring him off so soon.”

“Fine. Now, did I hear you tell that boy you didn't like your name?”

Draco groaned, startling Scorpius and pulling a delighted cackle from his mother. And people thought the Malfoys were dignified… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	8. Chapter Seven

Later that night, Harry watched unabashedly as Hermione pulled her shirt back into place, the little head of red hair peeking out and one tiny arm flailing for a moment as Rose adjusted to the change in position. Motherhood, parenthood, was a beautiful thing. Even months after giving birth, Hermione glowed with innate pride in her accomplishment, and Harry wouldn't dream of holding it against her. Sitting in the Weasley-Granger home, the smell of shepherd's pie filling the air while Hermione fed her daughter, was one of Harry's favorite places to be. Especially when he had something on his mind. 

“He has a baby?” Hermione asked, passing her own baby to Ron for burping. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “Looks just like him, too. Scorpius.”

Ron snorted and Hermione swatted the back of his head. “That's a lovely name,” she said. “How old is he?” 

“About a year, so a little older than Rose. God,” he groaned, only just realising. “They'll be in the same year at Hogwarts.”

“And she'll do just like her mother and slap him across the face,” Ron cooed, lifting Rose above his head. 

“Ronald! She absolutely will not.” Hermione looked indignant, but Harry laughed, earning a wink from Ron. “Well,” she amended. “Only if he deserves it.” 

“Judging by the lungs on that boy, he's likely to scream bloody murder,” Harry laughed. 

“‘My father will hear about this!’” Ron squeaked in rubbish falsetto. Harry sniggered. 

“Honestly, you two are worse than children.” Rising, Hermione plucked Rose from Ron's hands and headed down the corridor to the nursery. “Come along, Rosie, let's put you to bed. Daddy and Uncle Harry are busy being knobs.”

“Seriously,” Ron said, still chuckling. “Malfoy as a dad. I can't quite imagine it.”

“Neither could I.” Harry shook his head, still incredulous. “I mean, I saw it and I'm still not sure I believe it.”

“Wow.” They were silent for a while before… “You know, I'm still surprised he's bent.”

“I told you he was,” Hermione cried. “Speaking of which, you lost. Pay up.” She held out a hand and Ron dug into his pocket, pulled a Sickle from it, and pressed it into her palm, scowling. “Thank you.”

Harry groaned. “Both of you are terrible,” he whinged. “This is my life you're betting on!” 

“You're right, Harry,” Hermione said, with a contrite little nod, “and I won.” 

“He married a woman!” Ron protested. “He has a kid! Apparently.”

“That doesn't mean he's straight,” Hermione scoffed, smirking. “Even if he was still married to a woman. You do know about bisexuality, don't you?”

“Well, yeah, but… I don't know, it just didn't seem likely.”

Just then, the kitchen timer sounded, and Ron rose eagerly to his feet. “Dinner,” he announced, redundantly. 

Harry and Hermione stood as well, and followed him to the kitchen. 

“So, what happened?” Hermione asked, reaching for the bottle of wine resting on the worktop. “After you left the pub last night, I mean.”

“I don't want to know,” Ron sang, pulling the shepherd’s pie from the oven. 

“He spent the night,” Harry said anyway, rolling his eyes. “Er, sort of. He was gone when I woke up. Which is why I went to the Manor. Which is how I know he has a kid…” Harry reached for the wine glasses, handing each to Hermione. “We're having lunch with the kids, Saturday.”

“That's wonderful, Harry. Where are you going?” 

“I don't know, yet. We talked about ice cream. Does Fortescue sell food?”

“I think so,” Hermione said, frowning a little. 

“He does,” Ron supplied, behind them. “George is always popping over there for lunch at the weekends.”

“Perfect.”

“Harry,” Hermione sighed, setting the wine bottle down carefully. “Have you considered what it will mean to include Scorpius in this relationship? He's at an impressionable age. What happens if things don't work out between you?”

Harry winced. “Could we maybe not talk about this as if it might fail? We've only just begun— whatever this is.”

“You have my vote for not talking about it,” Ron scoffed. With the pie cooling on the table, he turned to retrieve plates while Hermione collected cutlery and Harry carried the salad to the table. 

“Of course.” Hermione offered him a glass of wine as he slid into a chair. “But you'll have to think about it at some point.”

“I know,” Harry sighed. “Thanks ‘Mione.”

Ron plopped himself down to Harry’s right. “Good. Now, what was it Malfoy said about the fingerprints at the crime scene?” 

“That they were small,” Harry answered, dragging in a deep breath. “He said a lot more, but that's the gist of it.”

“So, a woman?” Ron filled Hermione's plate, then reached for Harry's. “Even if a kid knew how to Apparate, the Ministry would be able to trace them performing underage magic,” he explained. 

“Not necessarily. Draco said it's impossible to tell the gender based on the fingerprints. Right now, I'm more concerned about what they want with these things,” Harry said, lifting a forkful of pie to his mouth. 

“They aren't terribly valuable, right?” Hermione asked. “Why steal them?”

“Right,” Ron agreed, brandishing his fork. “She could have gotten everything she'd need at that charity shop for less than five galleons.”

“Well,” Harry corrected. “The shopkeeper said that mobile was on hold for her friend, so nobody would have been able to buy it.”

“Oh, right.” He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “The items are all very specific, too. Each item stolen from the Muggle shops could have been found in one. She wanted those specific pieces.”

“Right. Treasures. But why?” 

-

Draco was on edge. It had been a week since Ms Woodrow agreed to bring her records to the Ministry. As Harry understood it, she had already claimed her father's remains and was planning the funeral service. She likely wouldn't be available until the end of the week, if not longer. 

But Draco was on edge. When he popped his head into the office for the third time before lunch on Tuesday morning, Harry caved. 

“Draco, relax,” he ordered, ignoring Ron's sniggers. “She'll come when she comes. Until then, your running back and forth won't make her come any faster.”

“I know, I just—” His nervous fidgeting finally culminated in reaching for Harry's chips where they were scattered across newsprint on his desk. “I hate waiting.”

“Your whole job is waiting,” Ron scoffed, but he rose to transfer his own chips to the pile. “Sit down, Malfoy, you're making us all nervous.”

Draco stuck out his tongue at Ron's retreating back, but scrapped a chair forward and sat, picking at the pile. 

“I don't know what else to do,” he whinged.” I can't do any more in the lab without her samples.”

“I know,” Harry replied, leaning forward on his desk and trying to catch Draco's eyes. “You said that yesterday. Why don't you go home? We can call you when she gets in.”

But Draco was already shaking his head. “No, that would be worse. I just— I need something to do.” 

“Why don't you help with these files?” Ron suggested, gesturing to the stack of boxes they were still sorting through. 

“Wow. How are there so many when there was barely any evidence?” Draco asked. 

“Ron, that's not—” 

“He said he needed something to do, Harry. That's something.”

“I can help,” Draco said, before Harry had a chance to answer. “You may need to tell me how to do it, though.”

“It's easy. You make a copy, file the copy, and you're done.”

Harry snorted. “If you're Ron. We're supposed to read through them, in case there's any information we don't already have. Granted, there isn't much. Most of this is nonsense speculation, but we should read them, anyway.”

“I am reading them,” Ron deadpanned. “I just don't care if Malfoy does.”

“Right, so; read, copy, file. That's it?” 

“That's it,” Harry confirmed, smiling at his enthusiasm. “Of course, let us know if you come across knew information,” he added, with a wink. 

“Right,” Draco and Ron replied, simultaneously, and Harry laughed at the sour looks they sent each other before getting to work. 

For the rest of the day and the next, they filed. Mostly, it was peaceful. Although, the only time Draco and Ron seemed in complete agreement was on the second day, when Harry made the lunch run and brought back sandwiches. Draco was fine with it, in fact, until Ron lamented the absence of fish and chips. Then, suddenly, both were up in arms, wondering what Harry had against “the food of the gods, Potter!” 

Harry would have been more worried, except he and Ron had this discussion at least once a week, and Draco leaned across the desk with a kiss and a murmured “Thank you.”

Reading the reports even became something of a game. When Draco discovered how ridiculous some of the theories were, he began reading them out loud, prompting Harry and Ron to rate them based on believability. 

“Oh Merlin,” he would groan. “This officer should be sacked. Listen to this…”

From hoodlum kids to vengeful spirits, every hairbrained notion was recorded. Frankly, he was pleased to see the Neonazi mind games theory come to an end about halfway through the box before Draco joined them. 

On Thursday morning, though, they completed the box for the charity shop scene, leaving two boxes remaining. Harry was frowning down at them in confusion when Draco passed him a mug of tea. 

“You were right,” Harry said. “There shouldn't be any more reports.”

With a thoughtful expression, Draco crouched beside the boxes, shuffling one out of its spot and tilting it to see the label. 

“This says January.” Craning his neck, he met Harry's eyes. “The first case wasn't until April.”

“That's the way I understood it,” Harry said, nodding. 

The door opened and Ron strolled in with lunch just as Draco lifted the box to Harry’s desk. “Oh, boy,” he said with a grimace. “More mad theories. How do these people have jobs?” 

“These are older,” Harry said, giving him a hard look. “We've finished everything up to the charity shop.”

“What? There were only three Muggle shops, weren't there?” 

“Apparently not,” Draco replied, and Harry and Ron moved to look over his shoulder at the report he was holding. “This is an antique shop in Chelsea, late January.”

“Fuck,” Ron groaned, dropping into one of Harry's guest chairs. “Is there a list of what was stolen, at least?” 

“If Scotland Yard got one, it's likely to be here.” Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Guess we'd better get—” 

A knock on the open door cut him off and all three men turned to find Elaine Woodrow standing there, looking uncertain. Trailing a supportive hand down Draco's back as he started around the desk, Harry ushered her in. 

“Good morning, Miss Woodrow. How are you?” 

“I've been better,” she scoffed, then sighed. “But I'm doing about as well as can be expected. Have you made any progress?” 

“Not yet,” Harry replied. Her gaze flicked to each of them in turn and Harry cleared his throat, gesturing. “Please, have a seat. Can we get you anything?” 

“No, thank you.”

Draco edged out of the way so she could sit, fidgeting nervously, but it was Ron who spoke next. “Thank you for coming,” he began, offering a warm smile. “This is a big help.” 

“Yes, well…” With a jerky shrug, she lifted a file to the desk. “These are the records. Not that it matters, much. I know what's missing.”

Harry paused halfway into his chair, staring. “You do?” 

“Of course. Your Unspeakables repaired everything after they finished with it.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry winced at her tone. “Should they not have? It's standard procedure when the victim isn't a Muggle, but I imagine you had a relevant insurance policy.”

“Do you know anything about antiques, Potter?” Draco asked, finally finding his voice. “An insurance policy would never adequately replace that kind of loss.”

Elaine nodded, eyeing Draco with something close to respect. “He's right. Most of the pieces we have are one of a kind, or so old that they're difficult to find. I definitely prefer to keep my inventory.”

“I see. Well, then, what's missing?” Harry asked, pulling a sheet of parchment from the stack on his desk and a quill from the jar, beside it. 

“A mirror and a lamp,” Elaine said, pausing for him to write it down. “Both came from an auction a few years after the war. Judging by the age and style, I was reasonably sure they came from the wizarding world, but neither had any kind of magical properties—” 

“You checked?” Ron interrupted. 

“Yes, I followed procedure, informed the Ministry of my purchase. They sent a curse breaker, but she didn't find anything. I was cleared to sell them to Muggles.”

“Was there any record of how it arrived at the auction?” Draco asked. 

“It was an auction house. They buy and sell hundreds of pieces every month. These pieces were sold as the remains of a large estate that was purchased after the owner passed away. There's no record of how they got there.”

“Do you have photographs of the items?” Harry asked. 

“Yes, I put them at the top of the file, along with the physical description, age, acquisition date, and value.”

Harry blinked at her. “Wonderful. Thank you.” If only everyone he dealt with could be so accommodating. “I think that's all we need. Draco, are you ready to collect your samples?” 

“Oh, of course,” he said, straightening. “I mean, everything is in the lab. If you'll follow me, Miss Woodrow.”

When they reached the door, Draco shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. Harry smiled at him, trying for reassuring, but he may have missed the mark. Draco would be fine, of course, but Harry made a mental note to check on him, after she left. 

-

The walk to his lab was quiet; it took all of Draco’s concentration to keep from blurting out apologies. Perhaps he owed them, but now was not the time. When they arrived, he held the door for her to enter, then hurried forward to clear a stack of reports from his visitor chair. No one ever used it, and he said so. 

“I apologise. The only guest I get down here is Potter, and he never sits.”

“You're fine,” Elaine answered absently, looking around. 

Draco itched to tidy up. His desk was covered in a layer of papers, now including the stack from the chair, and he knew those hid an equally disturbing number of quills. He'd barely stopped in since he began helping with the case files and his plants were suffering for it. 

That was something he could fix, though. Collecting the watering can from its place near the small plot of herbs, he filled it and began watering as Elaine continued to wander. He grew almost all of the ingredients he needed, with the exception of beetle eyes and unicorn horn, and even had a section of the Manor gardens dedicated to his craft. 

“You're a conundrum, Draco Malfoy,” Elaine muttered, leaning close to inspect a set of beakers and tubes, carefully placed to distill his blood work potions. “This looks more like a scientific laboratory than a potions lab.”

Draco frowned. “Potions is science,” he replied. “It's no different than chemistry, it uses the same concepts of physics. We simply have a greater understanding of the magical properties of our ingredients than Muggles do.”

While he spoke, addressing his plants rather than her, Elaine straightened and fixed him with a curious stare. “So, you're saying Muggles could brew potions if they knew the magical properties?” 

“Or if they followed the recipe,” Draco said, nodding. “It's quite a bit like baking, I've learned. And, when you know the properties, it becomes similar to cooking without a recipe.”

“You cook?” 

Now he laughed, a self-deprecating sound. “Not well. I can bake, if I follow a recipe.”

“Like I said,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “A conundrum. So, you're a mad scientist?”

“I'm not mad,” Draco countered. “Simply a scientist.”

“Ah, of course. Well, you'll have to forgive me if I find this whole thing a bit mad.”

“Yes, perhaps it is.” Returning the watering can, Draco turned to face her at last. “Shall we?” 

“Yes, of course.” Turning, she strode back to the desk while Draco collected the necessary potions. “You need samples, right?” 

“Yes. Fingerprints, hair, and DNA.” Dragging his desk chair to sit opposite hers, he perched on the edge and pinched a pair of tweezers twice. “Simple enough.”

“DNA? Like blood?” Her gaze flitted over Draco's supplies, nervously. “I— I don't do well with needles.”

Draco’s expression softened. “I don't use needles,” he explained, pointing to the jar beside a small stack of samples containers. “This is a numbing potion. I'll apply that to the site, and then I'll make a small incision and guide the blood to its container, same as the healers at St. Mungo’s. You won't feel a thing and, if it helps, you don't have to watch.”

The nervousness didn't clear, but it took on a resolute edge and Elaine nodded. “Okay.” 

“We'll start with hair and fingerprints, give you time to set—” 

“No. No, it's better to get it out of the way, I think.”

Draco nodded and set the tweezers down, picking up the numbing potion and an antiseptic, instead. Gently, he took her arm, selected a vein, and applied each potion, blowing on the spot to dry it. With a small whimper, Elaine turned her head away. 

“Can you feel this?” he asked, poking just above the spot, his eyes trained on her profile. 

She nodded. “Yes.” 

“Good. How about this?” This time, he poked directly on the spot, pressing harder than before. 

“No, I don't feel anything.”

“Good. That's very good. Okay, I'm going to start, now.”

“You know,” she said, a slight quiver moving under his fingers. “I'm quite surprised by how much you've changed. I half expected you to be cold, at the very least. I mean, your hands are cold, but I thought… I don't know. I thought you'd be more like you were in school.”

“A lot has changed since then,” Draco replied, calmly. She was babbling, which was to be expected. Carefully, he began the incision, directing the flow of blood with precise wand movements. 

“Yes, I suppose war will do that. I'm actually more surprised that Auror Potter is so friendly with you. That was the last thing anyone expected.”

Draco thought of the week before. Of Potter holding his son and smirking at him with a phial of hangover potion hanging from his mouth. Of that mouth on his, consuming him. Friendly, indeed. 

With practical movements, he ceased the flow of blood, healed the wound, and stoppered the sample. “Yes, well, no one was more surprised that I with that turn of events. Okay, now, let's get a hair follicle.”

“You're done?” she asked, turning to examine her arm. “That was quick, wasn't it?” 

“Everything moves quicker when you spend the time talking,” he told her, winking. 

“Oh, yes. I'm sorry. Nervous habit.”

“That's quite alright. Anything that makes you more comfortable.” Retrieving his tweezers, he stood, gesturing. “May I?” 

She nodded, turning slightly to accommodate him. “Ow! Bloody hell! That was worse than the blood.”

Draco laughed as she rubbed the spot on her head. “Yes, I'm sorry. There's no way to apply the numbing agent to your head without getting it all over your hair.” 

“I suppose so. The fingerprints are painless, right?” she asked, tilting her head and grinning. 

“Entirely,” he assured her. 

When the prints were added to his collection, Draco led Elaine to the door, a new resolve squaring his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “I know the way I treated you is unforgivable, but I am sorry.”

Her face took on a hard look as she studied him, as if looking for some hint of insincerity. Finally, she sighed, drew in a deep breath. “You know, I was more scared than anything. My father didn’t understand what was happening, so it never occurred to him to keep me home from school, like some parents did. But I knew. Five years with Death Eaters and sympathisers, you get used to hearing the slurs, discussing the implications. And, when they were finally in the school, we all knew what to expect.” Draco nodded along, his heart clenching painfully. He held his breath when she went on. “What I didn’t expect, though, was that your Cruciatus curse would be so weak.”

Draco’s head jerked up, his eyes finding hers. “What?”

“Yeah. I mean, the way you used to talk, I thought you hated us enough to make it count, but… that was pathetic.” Draco simply stared, dumbfounded. “Don’t get me wrong, it definitely hurt, but, I mean. Wow. I’ve felt worse pain stubbing my big toe.”

“I thought—”

“Oh, I know what you thought. And you’re right, you shouldn’t have done it and it’s technically unforgivable. That’s why they’re called unforgivable curses. But don’t fool yourself, Malfoy. You were a shit Death Eater.”

With that, she swept from the room, leaving Draco staring after her. He wasn’t sure what just happened, but his chest felt lighter than it had in years.

-

“Draco?” Harry asked, tentatively, as he eased open the lab door. “Is it safe?”

His caution was met with laughter, startling him. Maybe it was worse than he expected; the encounter must have tipped Draco over the edge…

“What, exactly, are you asking, Potter?” Draco demanded, spinning around to face Harry where he still stood in the doorway. “Were you expecting to find me crying in a corner? Wallowing in self-loathing? Maybe you thought I killed that poor woman, hmm? Or that she killed me?”

Slowly, Harry stepped into the room. “Something like that, yes. So, it went well, then?”

“Yes,” he smirked. “It went well. Now, please tell me you brought food.” Rising, he met Harry halfway into the room, standing on his toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. 

“Well,” Harry began, turning to look at the clock, pointedly. “I was going to, but then I thought I might just drag you out, instead.”

“Shit.” Draco whipped around, groaning. “Every blasted day! You'd think I didn't have an internal clock to speak of.”

“I'm getting that impression, yes,” Harry chuckled. “So, dinner?” 

Draco frowned, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “I really shouldn't. Mother likely has dinner on the table, and I need to tend to Scorpius.” 

“Ah, yes. The secret child.” 

“He's not a secret. There just… wasn't a reason to tell anyone about him.”

“Really?” Harry scoffed. “The Malfoy line has a new heir but didn't feel the need to put an article in the Prophet?” 

Draco affected a thoughtful expression for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Correct.”

“Well, I'm impressed. I suppose I'll just have to wait until Saturday, then?” 

“Right again, Potter.” His tone was playful, but Draco leaned into him, betraying how tired he was. “Did you and Weasley look through those reports?” 

“Harry,” Harry corrected gently, slipping his arms around Draco's waist. “And yes. Three more break-ins and I think we're relatively certain someone is decorating a nursery.”

“A what?” Draco asked, frowning. 

“Well, there was a painting, a toy chest, various toys, and a selection of Muggle children's books stolen. Add that to the rest of it and I think it's safe to say.”

“Muggle books?” Pulling away, Draco sat back down on his stool, leaving Harry to lean against the desk. “And a copy of Beedle the Bard. Maybe a Muggle-born?” 

“Or a half-blood. That's what Ron and I were thinking.” Harry folded his arms, nodding. “We also figured that the thief is stealing these things because they know them.”

“Stealing them  _ back _ ,” Draco said, his eyes widening. “Fuck. That means—” 

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “This is all because of something that happened during the war.”

Draco was silent for a while, his finger tapping restlessly against his knee. “So, what next? Is there a list of looting victims somewhere? What if they were attacked when the Death Eaters had control?” 

“We're looking into it. There's also some more evidence for you. When you finish that, if you aren't too busy with other cases, maybe you can come with us to interview the older victims.”

Draco smiled softly. “I'd like that. I need to look into something, first.” Rising, he leaned in to kiss Harry's cheek again. “I should go. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, no,” Harry said, dodging his lips even as he hooked a hand around Draco's hip. “No more granny kisses. I want a real kiss.” 

Draco laughed but lifted his chin obligingly, closed his eyes, and waited. And Harry stared. God, he was gorgeous. Pale lashes brushed high, sharp cheekbones, and those were flushed slightly with his pleasant mood. His hair was pulled back, but escaping the band to frame his face 

Lifting a hand, Harry, ghosted one thumb over the splotch of red, trailing it down to the corner of Draco's mouth and letting his hand cup the warm cheek. Dark eyes fluttered open and, when they rested on Harry's, he finally lowered his lips to Draco's. It was teasing at first, barely a whisper of contact, barely a taste. But it sent Harry's senses reeling, building a slow fire low in his belly, demanding more. Tightening his grip, he angled his head, deepening the kiss and probing the lips under his to part.

They fell open on a moan that shot straight through Harry as Draco's arms circled his shoulders, pulling him closer. The flavour, when he slid his tongue over Harry’s, was just as alluring, just as intoxicating as the first time. His head was spinning, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and it was all he could do not to drag Draco to the floor.

And then it was over. Draco pulled away, taking a step back and placing a hand on Harry’s chest to keep him at a distance as he caught his breath. “You’re stalling,” he accused, smirking. “I have to go home, Potter.”

Harry sighed. “I know,” he said, then used Draco’s wrist to jerk him close, taking his lips again for one, heated moment. “Go have dinner with your kid,” he ordered, smirking at the dazed expression on Draco’s face.

“Right.” Haltingly, he left the lab, seemingly remembering to say goodbye only as he crossed the threshold. “Go-goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight,” Harry murmured, watching him go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	9. Chapter Eight

“Here you are, Mr Malfoy.” Carefully levitating the stack of records onto the Draco's little table, Flemming braced both wrinkled hands on the surface and leaned down to squint at the document he was reading. “That's a lovely piece,” he said, pointing.

“Quite lovely, yes,” Draco muttered. He had long since stopped asking the man to call him by his given name, but it wasn't as awkward as it could be. Flemming Larsson worked in the dungeon—the affectionate name given to the Ministry's record room—long before Lucius Malfoy made his mark on the Ministry. Yet, even though he called Draco by the same title, he never treated him as if he thought they were the same person. That was remarkably refreshing. “How do you do, Mr. Larsson?”

Draco glanced up with a sly grin to find Flemm smiling at him and shaking his head fondly. Flemm refused to call him Draco; Draco refused to call him Flemming. It was their thing.

“All is well, son,” Flemm said, straightening with a creak of his aging joints. “What are you still doing down in this dusty torture chamber? Lunch was an hour ago. You ought to get outside, get some sun while we've got it.”

“I missed lunch again?” Draco asked, sighing. “Potter will have my arse.” Rising, he gathered a few records and set them in a stack before Flemm. “Is it alright if I take some of these up to the lab?”

“‘Course. You just be sure I get them back.”

“I know, I know,” Draco said, affecting a weary posture. “I'll never make that mistake again.”

“Too right.” Still nodding, Flemm cast another levitation charm to carry along the records Draco had already scoured and shuffled toward his desk at the front of the cavernous room. “Enjoy your lunch, Mr Malfoy,” he called, “and your shag.”

Draco watched him go, frowning in confusion, before charming his own pile of records to float along behind him as he made his way back to his lab. As expected, Harry had dropped by with lunch—chicken tikka masala—and left a scrap of parchment with a cheeky “Couldn't find you. Hope you haven't fainted from hunger” in his ridiculous chicken scratch handwriting.

Try as he might, Draco couldn't stop the warmth spreading through his chest, tingling in his fingertips. Flipping the takeaway tray open, he settled into his chair with his lunch and the stack of records.

From mother of pearl combs that tightened in one's hair until they scalped the victim to a pair of diamond studded iron shoes that heated themselves without the use of actual fire, there were plenty of gruesome trinkets designed to bring suffering upon the user, but each record was very specific, each item named. “Ruby necklace rumoured to have vague magical power by clueless Muggles” did not yield any viable results, though Draco knew it wouldn't before searching. Which left him poring over stacks of records. Every golden necklace set with a red stone was recorded, and there were hundreds.

Shuffling through the files, he did his best to sort the stack between red stones and actual ruby. Of that much, Mr Kane was certain. The method had a dual purpose; eliminating everything that wasn't remotely relevant and skimming the contents of each record. He kept the inventory photograph of the stolen necklace within reach and referenced it often.

It was a simple piece, not something one would expect to pass through the hands of royalty. Frankly, it seemed at odds with the era of its purported origins. The golden chain was intricately woven, a thick plait that seemed to curl in on itself like a mass of writing snakes. That pattern continued, tapering and wrapping around the metal plate that held the stone to frame it in a fine gilt rope. The stone itself was small, unlike its more extravagant counterparts, a mere chip of blood red by comparison.

Polishing off the last of his lunch, Draco sucked a dab of the rich masala from his thumb and shifted the rejected records to a corner of his desk before burying himself again. But, as he flipped through the records, finishing his stack and returning to the dungeon for another, he began to doubt he'd find anything of import within them.

By its nature, cursed jewellery was intended to be given to an unwitting victim. Most could sit in shops for decades without triggering the magic but, if their thief felt compelled to steal the necklace, it would stand to reason they had plans for its magic—if it truly was magical. And, considering the vast amount of cursed jewellery that was recorded here as “location unknown,” it seemed likely that there were other, less public means of obtaining one.

A thought niggled at the back of Draco's mind, sapping his focus as, for what seemed like the first time since his days in university, he felt the hours of work deep in his bones long before the clock on the dungeon wall confirmed it. Rising, he levitated the remaining records back to their proper places without bothering to call for Flemm as he let the thought form, fully.

Stones held their own power. Between his studies in the Muggle university and the potions mastery course that came before, he knew the magical properties inherent in many stones, as well as the scientific properties. But he was by no means an expert.

Luckily, he knew one.

Hurrying up to his lab, Draco rushed to pen a letter, then gathered his belongings and dashed back out. And right into Harry.

“Whoa,” he said, laughing as he lifted his hands to steady Draco. “What's your rush, gorgeous?”

“Harry!” Draco exclaimed. Somehow, in his haste, he'd forgotten the man's habit of shooing him home after work. Beaming up at him, he stood up a little straighter to peck a chaste kiss to his lips before pulling away and continuing, backward, down the corridor. “Sorry, I have to dash. I need to get to the public owlery before they close.”

“What's happened?” Harry called after him, looking a little dazed, still standing in place in front of the door to Draco's lab. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, I just need to post a letter to a colleague. I'll tell you about it tomorrow.”

With that, he turned and jogged the remaining distance to the lift.

-

Harry watched Draco go, a confused little frown slowly morphing until a lopsided grin replaced it. It was anyone's guess whether Draco remembered their lunch plans for tomorrow or simply forgot it was Friday, but he was perfectly happy with either, as Draco clearly expected to see him. That was more than enough for Harry.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, he strolled toward the lift, whistling. That encounter had taken up less time than expected, so he was content to meander all the way to the Floo banks and through, and he was still grinning as he stepped into Andromeda’s receiving room.

A chime was echoing through the house, announcing his arrival, and Harry followed it out into the corridor. They would still be in the middle of dinner, so he took his time reaching the dining room. When he entered, it was to an exasperated eye roll from Andromeda and a vibrating, teal-with-black-tips headed Teddy.

“Harry!” he called. “Grandma says I have to finish eating before I can get ready to go.”

“That's fine,” Harry assured him. “Take your time, I'm early.” Ruffling the boy's hair as he passed, he bent to kiss Andromeda’s cheek, sharing her tired smile. “How are things, Andi?” he asked, settling into the seat between them as Teddy returned to his remaining mash and roasted vegetables.

“Things are well, Harry. Thank you.” Dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a linen cloth, she made to stand. “Would you like a plate?”

“No, no,” Taking her wrist, he urged her back into her seat. “I'm fine, I'll get something at the cinema.”

“We're going to see X-Men!” Teddy informed her, pushing his vegetables around with his fork. “Right, Harry?”

“That's right.”

“That's very exciting, Teddy, but you aren't going anywhere until you've finished your dinner.” Andromeda chuckled when Teddy hunched his shoulders with a sheepish grin, then turned back to Harry. “How is work, dear?”

“Work is good,” he said, nodding. “I think we're getting closer to solving this case.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The why is still a mystery, but I think we're agreed that someone is furnishing a nursery. There's this collection of children's books, all Muggle. They seem pretty old, but all of them have the same inscription: ‘For Lucas.’ Ron and I are leaning toward family heirlooms or childhood belongings. Maybe Lucas is the one robbing these places.”

“That definitely seems plausible. Many of us lost something in the wars. Perhaps he's trying to reclaim what was taken.”

“Exactly,” Harry said. Leaning forward, he picked up the salt cellar, turning it thoughtfully in his fingers. “I just wish we had more to go on. This shopping spree has turned deadly and I don't want anyone else caught in this guy's crosshairs.”

“Of course. I'm sure you'll sort it out, Harry.”

Harry gave her a weak smile, patting the hand she laid on his arm just as metal clattered against crockery, signalling the end of Teddy's meal before his sing-song cry of “Finished!” confirmed it.

“Alright,” Harry said. “What are you waiting for, then? Go grab your kit and let's get to it!”

“Edward Lupin!” Andromeda scolded as he sprang to his feet. “Harry's presence is no excuse for rudeness.”

“Oh, I'm sorry grandma.” Contrite, Teddy lowered himself to his seat, again. “Please, may I be excused?”

“Yes, you may. And _walk_ , for the love of—” But it was too late. The boy was on his feet and through the door before she could finish the order. Shaking her head, she eyed Harry. “That child is going to be the death of me.”

Harry winced, fully aware of his own influence. “Sorry, I didn't think.”

“Not to worry. He's old enough to know better. You are awfully early, tonight,” she noted, continuing with her own dinner. “It was a good day?”

Harry's smile widened, taking on that goofy appearance he wore whenever he thought of Draco. “Yes. Your nephew seemed to remember to leave work, tonight, so I had a few moments more than expected.”

“Well, that's nice. That boy works too hard.” Sliding him a knowing smirk, she lifted an eyebrow. “Things are going well between you two, then?”

The smile didn't falter, even as a slight flush darkened his cheeks. “Quite well, thank you. We're taking the kids to lunch this weekend.”

“Oh? Will little Rose be joining you?” Andromeda averted her eyes, picking uncharacteristically at her chicken, and Harry laughed.

“No, no. Just the two of us, Teddy, and Scorpius.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she sighed, dropping a hand to the table dramatically. “I will never understand why Draco insisted on keeping his son a secret.”

“I not sure, either. But it's his decision, isn't it?”

“Unfortunately. But, if you know about him, that eases my conscience some. I detest this subterfuge.”

“I'm ready!” Teddy called, barrelling back into the dining room. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, the Wolverine badge winking into view, and he carried his broomstick in the other hand.

“Well let's go, then.” With one last smile at Andromeda as Teddy hugged her goodbye, Harry shuffled him out into the corridor. “We'll pop over to mine and drop your stuff off,” he said. “Can't go to the cinema with a broomstick.”

“Oh, right,” Teddy giggled. “Can I have sweets at the cinema, Harry?”

Chuckling, Harry took his hand and led him through the Floo.

-

“For Merlin’s sake, Scorpius! Don't you want to see Teddy?” Scorpius looked up at the sound of his voice, his laughter echoing off the stone walls.

Draco was nearing the end of his patience. Twenty minutes to dress the boy and by the time Draco was dressed, another ten minutes later, Scorpius’ shoes were on the floor and his shirt was in the process of following, dropped by little hands over the guardrails of his cot.

Retrieving the abused clothing, Draco shook the shirt out and pulled it back down, over Scorpius’ head, opting to button the last few buttons at the collar and cuffs to prevent another escape from the pressed blue checks. “That's enough of that, young man. Any more trouble out of you, and there'll be no ice cream in your future.”

“Up! Up!” he squealed, as Draco collected the shoes and scolded himself, for the umpteenth time, for lying to his son. He really should stop that.

“Yes, yes. Up.”

Lifting him from the cot, Draco sat on his bed to shove the shoes back onto squirming feet. After another nappy change and considerably more squirming, they were finally on their way.

“Does this mean I can't go to Honeydukes anymore?” Teddy's voice preceded him up the stairs and Draco chuckled as he recalled his promise for keeping Scorpius a secret. “Hi, Draco!” he cried before they managed to descend a single step. He came racing up the stairs to take the trip with them, his hair lightening from teal toward Draco's own blond. “Harry said I could carry the nappy bag! Can I hold Scorpius? I won't drop him again, honest!”

Draco gave an exaggerated shudder as he relinquished the bag. They had been sitting on the floor, Scorpius’ little bum planted on the carpet between Teddy's legs, when he rolled himself away to chase a toy that had toppled out of his hand. On a cushioning charm. Poor Teddy was so worried he'd hurt his cousin, and swore it would never happen again.

But Draco enjoyed teasing him. “I don't know, Edward. That's a pretty big responsibility. Are you sure you can handle it?”

Round amber eyes met his as Teddy nodded, emphatically. “I know I can!” he insisted.

Draco laughed. “Okay, then you can hold him when we get to the restaurant.”

With a whoop that startled Scorpius, he tore back down the stairs. “Did you hear, Harry? Draco said I could hold Scorp, even though I dropped him once!”

“I heard,” Harry said, ruffling Teddy's hair. “You're quite lucky. As I understand it, Draco is very protective of his son.” Looking up, he locked amused eyes with Draco's, smirking up at him. “Isn't that right, gorgeous?”

Draco felt his cheeks heat and ducked his head for a moment. Fuck, but Harry was… Alluring. Everything about him screamed casual masculinity and sex, even when he grinned at whatever Teddy was saying, dad mode clearly activated. His dark hair fell in swooping waves of tangled curls, hooking around his ears and blending with the scruffy beginnings of a beard that darkened his jaw.

Harry was smiling at him again by the time he reached his side, and snaked a possessive arm around his waist, dodging Scorpius as he leaned in to capture Draco's lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. Teddy's groans and muttered “grown ups are so gross” went unheard, unable to penetrate the roaring in Draco's ears.

“Good morning,” he panted, resting his forehead against Harry's.

“Morning,” Harry replied. He nuzzled at Draco's nose for a moment, before pressing another, softer kiss to his lips and gliding a hand down his arm to take his hand. “Ready to go?”

“Y- yes.” Nodding, he glanced down to Scorpius, who was watching them far too closely, and jiggled him a little. “Aren't we, Scorpius? You're ready for lunch, I'd reckon.”

“No!” Scorpius squealed, clapping his chubby hands together and beaming at Draco.

“Well, it's settled then, isn't it?” Harry asked, clipping a crooked finger over the pudgy, drool dampened chin and averting the boy's attention to himself.

With Teddy close on their heels and babbling about X-Men, they made their way out into the gardens to Apparate to Diagon Alley in pairs. The litany of childhood joy resumed the moment Draco set foot on the bustling street and he nodded along, utterly ignorant of anything the boy was actually saying.

He was past believing that everything he did would incite untoward gossip in the _Daily Prophet_ ’s society pages, but this was a rather large step. Narcissa took Scorpius into wizarding London, but Draco had yet to do so himself. Between officially showing his son to the world and puttering around Diagon Alley with Harry Potter and Teddy Lupin like they were a ragtag family, Draco was relieved Harry didn't take his hand for the duration of their walk to Fortescue’s.

Although, frankly, he was more impressed Harry seemed to understand that. He never even tried to take Draco's hand again. He walked close, their elbows and shoulders brushing, but Harry seemed to pay close attention to Teddy's ongoing enthusiasm, which had switched to Quidditch at some point. That was, until he leaned over to murmur in Draco's ear.

“You doing okay, gorgeous? I can carry Scorp, if you want.”

A little thrill that had no business running down his spine in the middle of Diagon Alley did exactly that and Draco flushed as he passed the squirming toddler to Harry. Who immediately jiggled the boy into a fit of giggles before tossing him in the air and catching him under the armpits, promptly giving Draco a minor heart attack.

“Be careful, you oaf!” he cried, scowling when Harry and Scorpius just laughed.

“It's okay, Draco,” Teddy assured him, slipping a small hand in his. “Babies love that stuff. Ron does it to Rose all the time, and she's way littler than Scorpius.”

Draco nodded, hesitantly, and decided to take the advice despite his reservations. Harry clearly knew what he was doing, and Draco knew Scorpius wasn't his first experience with a child, so he tried to relax. But he was eternally grateful when they reached the ice cream parlour and he could take Scorpius back to secure him into a high chair at their table.

“So Ted,” Harry began after they'd ordered. “Are you excited for Hogwarts?”

“Yes!” Teddy exclaimed, bouncing in his seat. “Grandma says we can go shopping for my list next weekend!”

Draco looked out through a window across the room, started. “Is it that time already?” The sun beat down outside, casting short shadows and forcing the passing people to remove any heavy robes under its onslaught. Summer was definitely still in full swing.

“It's not,” Harry assured him and Draco jolted when he felt a warm hand on his thigh. “Andi just wants to get it done as soon as possible.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” Nodding, he shook himself. He was having lunch, not facing a firing squad. He needed to relax. “What house do you think you'll be in then, Teddy?” he asked, ignoring Harry's smug look at the use of the nickname.

“I'm going to be in Hufflepuff, just like my mum!” Teddy answered, immediately.

“I thought it was Gryffindor,” Harry said, frowning. “Like me and your dad.”

“Or Slytherin,” Draco interjected. “Like me and Merlin.”

Teddy rolled his eyes and Harry smirked, jabbing a finger into Draco's shoulder.

“All of those are good,” Teddy said. “But Ron told me the Hufflepuff common room is underground—”

“So is the Slytherin common room!”

“— _and_ beside the kitchen.” Their food arrived and just as he said that and his eyes lit up at the sight, pulling laughter from Draco and Harry.

“Oh, of course!” Harry laughed. “How could I forget. But you'll have to work out how to get in,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.

“That's right,” Draco agreed, nodding solemnly as he poured chips onto Scorpius’ tray. “The entrance is hidden.”

“That's okay!” Teddy said, his mouth half full. “I'll figure it out!”

Harry met his eye, smirking, and Draco nodded.

“Ravenclaw,” they said, together, before dissolving into giggles at Teddy's exasperated expression.

When they finished eating and had ordered their ice creams, Harry helped cast the necessary protective spells on the chairs, floor, and table, then Draco settled Scorpius in Teddy's lap and left the boys to slurp at their cones, together. Harry's hand rested on his thigh again but, this time, he lowered his own to cover it, smiling warmly.

“So,” Harry asked, turning to face him. “What was the hurry, yesterday?”

“Oh! I'm sorry, I nearly forgot.” He angled his own body, keeping a watchful eye on the children. “I was researching the stolen necklace yesterday—it has a bit of a history in the Muggle world. And it occured to me, belatedly, that I should reach out to a colleague of mine. A mate from uni who knows more about the innate magical properties of stones than I do.”

Harry was staring, his jaw slack and his eyes a bit glazed, dulling the vibrant green. Draco snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, Potter, I went to university, among Muggles. I wasn't the on—”

Suddenly, Harry's lips were on his, cutting him off and drawing a quiet gasp from Draco. But, as quickly as it began, he was pulling away and dropping his forehead to rest against Draco's and holding his eyes in a heated gaze.

“Wh-what was that for?” he asked, unable to tear his eyes from Harry's.

“You know damned well,” was all Harry said before flicking a glance at the children and back. “Come back to mine, after this. We can put a cot in Teddy's room for the night, and I'll make breakfast in the—”

Draco pressed a hand over his mouth to cease the flow of convincing arguments and smiled up at Harry. “I'd love to,” he murmured, then pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Ood,” Harry mumbled around the hand, then tugged it down to reveal his grin. “Now, what did your colleague have to say about our necklace?”

Laughing, Draco combed a hand through his hair. “Nothing, yet. It shouldn't be too long, though. He's a helpful bloke. We were roommates, at uni, and he was constantly helping me with the nuances of Muggle culture.”

“Muggle-born?”

“Halfblood,” Draco corrected. “But his parents raised I'm in a muggle area. Apparently, his father insisted that he was exposed to both of their cultures.”

“That's a good idea. Andromeda and I are doing the same with Teddy.”

“Oh, I know. You take him to the cinema and I let him fly around Malfoy Manor.”

“Are we going to fly this weekend, Draco?” Teddy asked, perking up. “I brought my broom!”

“Of course, but you should probably ask Harry. It's his weekend.”

“It's our weekend,” Harry said, frowning at him. “And of course we can, Teddy.”

“Alright,” Draco said, handing his cone to Harry. “Let's get you boys cleaned up and be on our way.”

Outside, the shadows were lengthening as afternoon bled into evening, and Scorpius had more ice cream down his front than he had eaten. Teddy waited patiently while Draco tidied the baby, then him, before lifting Scorpius and turning toward the toilet.

“I've some money in the nappy bag, Harry, if you don't mind settling our bill while I change Scorpius.”

“Oh no,” Harry insisted, catching his chin for a kiss. “My idea, my treat.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but gave a curt nod. “Very well, Potter, but let's not make a habit of it. I can pay for myself.”

“Of course you can. I never said otherwise.” Without giving him a chance to retort, Harry took Teddy's hand and made his way to the counter.

When he left the parlour, he found Harry and Teddy in the middle of the Alley, arms raising invisible wands in an imaginary duel. Holding Scorpius close as he yawned hugely and his head nodded to Draco's shoulder, he watched, allowing the warmth to spread and his heart to clench.

There was no doubt in his mind that he was in love. Foolish as falling for the saviour of the wizarding world was, he'd expected no less in dealing with Harry Potter. Nothing about him was easy, nothing ever had been. From his first stirrings, at the Yule Ball in fourth year, Draco had known he was irrevocably fucked.

Sighing, he started toward the ridiculous pair and lifted an eyebrow—Harry was lying on the ground and flopping like a fish out of water. At the unasked question, Harry widened his eyes and flopped more erratically, mumbling a frantic plea through sealed lips.

Teddy giggled, doubling over. “I used a full body bind,” he explained. “Harry can't move.”

“I see,” Draco said, smirking. “Well, go on then, lift the curse.”

Teddy raised his invisible wand, still gigging, then stilled. “I can't remember the countercurse,” he said, looking to Draco for help.

“Oh. That's a shame.” Winking down at Harry, Draco clapped a hand on Teddy's back. “Oh well, we'd better be going, anyway. Come along, Teddy.” Laughing along with the boy, he stepped over Harry and started toward the Apparition point.

Committed to his role, Harry let out a muffled shriek and flailed about some more. So Draco took pity on him. Lifting a hand in a casual wave, he called over his shoulder, “ _Finite,_ ” and kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	10. Chapter Nine

I always went a bit twitchy when I was in the wizarding district of London. Like I didn't belong. Mother called me a half blood when she was angry, but she said I was a squib, unable to produce the magic she wielded so effortlessly. I was weak and, therefore, forever dependant on her. 

Because of that, I felt exposed, on display. Surely, they all knew what I was. Even though no one spoke, no one approached me. They must have known. 

Yet, also because of that, Knockturn was one of the places I felt most at ease. There were few passersby and I knew most of them were there for dealings as questionable as Mother's. They were unlikely to approach me. The part I enjoyed most was watching the more vibrant, colourful people passing on Diagon Alley. 

On that day, while Mother skulked about in Borgin and Burkes, I saw them for the first time. At that point, I didn't know who they were, didn't know they would be my salvation, or that one already had been. 

To me, they were two men walking down Diagon, holding hands as a boy danced around them. They seemed… Happy. Content in the early evening and each other's company. As they moved closer, I ducked into the shadows and listened, eager to know how happiness sounded. 

“Oh, please, Potter,” the blond was scoffing. “Those were brilliant. You just didn't know how to appreciate them.”

“Of course. Nothing says creativity like charming badges to say ‘Potter stinks.’” The man smiled, though, as he adjusted a sleeping baby in the crook of his arm and swung the other hand bringing the one he held up to his lips. “Although, I'm sure the charms were quite brilliant,” he conceded. 

“Damn right, they were.”

“What did you do, Harry?” the boy asked, turning shining eyes on the dark haired man. 

“I punched him,” he said, “right in his posh nose.”

“You did not! You bloody fainted.”

“I- that wasn't even you, you prat! That was actual Dementors. You got your arse handed to you when you tried that.”

“Oh, hi!” 

Before I knew it was coming, the boy stopped right before me, smiling and waving up at me. And I stood there, frozen. What could I say? This boy was part of a world in which I didn't belong. 

“What's your name?” he asked, and it was on the tip of my tongue to answer. 

“Teddy, who are you— oh. Hello. What are you doing out here?” 

I looked up, then, into the brightest eyes I'd ever seen. They were green, like jewels that sparkled in spite of the sinking sun. And the look he gave me, softer than the other man's hard stare, was so welcoming. Again, I opened my mouth to speak. 

Except, I couldn't. As with the boy, these men were part of something I could never be, something I would never have. As they stood there, waiting for my answer, I felt a cold hand on the nape of my neck. 

“Gentlemen,” Mother said, her voice colder than I'd ever heard. “I do hope my son isn't troubling you.”

“Not at all,” Harry said, offering a warm smile. “We were just worried, he seemed to be alone.”

The hand tightened. “Yes, well, as you can see, that isn't the case. Come along, Lucas. We need to get you home.” As she always did when someone noticed me, she treated me as if I was an invalid. Incapable of walking without her hand on my arm, unable to speak for myself. 

Perhaps that's what I was. 

Still, I chanced a glance over my shoulder for one last glimpse of the shining people who saw me. But I wish I hadn't. Something twisted their faces, marring the beauty of them. Something I wouldn't recognise until much later as concern. 

“What have I said, you fool? Stay at my side or in the bloody shadows. Are you trying to have us arrested?” Mother hissed, tightening her hold on my neck. “Don't you know who that was?” 

I knew she didn't expect an answer. She knew I didn't know the answer. So she carried on, as if I wasn't there. As if this was another of her muttered diatribes. 

“That was only Harry fucking Potter, you twit! He's an Auror and there's little chance he wouldn't cart you away if he knew what you were up to, make no mistake.”

When we reached the other end of the alley, she jerked me around to face her, her eyes murderous. “Come on, we need to get back. I need to find it.”

I couldn't help myself. This was the last one, she'd said. So… “What do you need to find?” I asked, hesitantly, cringing away, just in case. 

“The blanket! It isn't bloody here! Those bastards must have sold it, already. I need to find it. I need to—” 

She carried on her rant, even as my heart sank, even as she dragged me into Apparition before shoving me away to collect what she'd need to scry for the blanket. I stayed where I was, watching her long into the night and thinking of Harry Potter and his family. 

-

“One more story, Draco?” Teddy yawned, his eyes already drooping and his hair fading to its natural brown. “Please?” 

Harry watched from the doorway as Draco rose, cradling Scorpius in his arms, and moved toward the temporary cot under the window. “Not tonight,” he said. When he turned back, he shook his head before leaning down to adjust the boy's blanket. As if that sight wasn't enough to make Harry's mouth water, Draco lifted his hands over his head, stretching his body out and twisting his hips slightly. 

Harry cleared his throat, chuckling when Draco whipped around. “He's asleep?” he whispered, walking into the room. 

“Only just. He always thinks he has one more story in him, doesn't he?”

“He does.” Swirling grey trained on him as Harry slid a hand along Draco's hip, around his waist, to hold him close. “But he's asleep, now.” 

Leaning in, he captured Draco's lips, unhurried and lingering. But it wasn't enough. A week had passed since Harry was able to touch him, to sink into him, and he needed more than soft and gentle. He closed his arms tightly and shuffled toward the door and out of the room, pulling Draco along as he laughed quietly and stumbled after him. 

“God, Draco, you have no idea what you do to me,” Harry muttered. 

Pausing to close the door, he cast a sound detection spell, ensuring that they would be alerted if the boys woke before dawn. When he turned back, Draco was gone. 

“Draco?” he hissed, striding to the stairs and peering down into the gloom. “Draco, where are you?” 

“Where do you think I am, Potter?” Draco called, and Harry could hear the eye roll in his tone. But the sound came from his bedroom, which was definitely good news. Padding back that direction, he stepped up to the open door—

And froze. 

Sprawled across the bed, like he belonged there, was Draco. His long, slender legs were crossed at the ankles and he was propped up on one elbow, slowly stroking himself with the other hand. And he was nude. 

He chuckled as Harry stared, eyes roving over every inch of alabaster skin, sharp angles, and long limbs. The last time had been so fast, and over so soon. He wanted to drink Draco in, consume him. Savour him. 

Slowly, he crossed the room, taking his time to memorise every shadow, every freckle. Draco hesitated, his strokes slowing, and Harry could see determination harden his face before he slid down on the mattress, rolling to his back and spreading his legs. 

When Harry stood above him, dark, hooded eyes met his, and Draco's mouth fell open as he panted slightly. In spite of the flush rising from his shoulders, he kept his gaze locked and slowly, tantalisingly slowly, lifted one leg to his chest, exposing himself fully. Harry felt his control slipping, felt unable to stop himself falling forward and closing his teeth around the pale, sensitive flesh of Draco's inner thigh. 

“Fucking hell,” Draco groaned, lifting the other leg to Harry’s shoulder and bucking his hips. “Merlin, Potter!” 

Releasing him, Harry lapped at the spot, mouthing gentle kisses to soothe the already reddening skin. “My god,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. “What have I done to deserve this?” 

Draco's shin tightened on his shoulder, his heel bumping against Harry's lower back as he laughed. “Fuck, I knew you'd be a sap,” he sneered, dragging him up and nipping at his lips. “Again. Say something else sappy.”

Harry smirked, taking Draco's lips as long legs wrapped around his hips. “You're beautiful,” he said, pulling away to trail his thumb along one slim, arched brow. “Everything about you is beautiful and I can't believe I'm lucky enough—” 

“Stop, stop,” Draco cried, squirming uncomfortably. “I lied, I don't want to hear it. Keep your sap to yourself.”

Laughing, Harry conceded with a shrug and ducked his head, sealing his lips over the pulse point in Draco's throat. “It's true, though,” he murmured, dragging a hand down, over collar bone and rib cage, closing it tightly on Draco's hip and rolling his own. 

“I don't care if it's true, Potter,” Draco moaned, arching his back. “Shut the fuck up and—  _ ahh _ !” 

Looking down from his new position, Harry admired the contrast of pale skin against dark denim as he shifted his knees firmly into place. Draco's arse fit snugly against his own groin, the cleft cupping Harry's cock, the pressure squeezing it when he rocked his hips into the supple flesh. Mesmerised, he reached down, avoiding the swollen length at the apex of Draco's legs, to massage his thighs, spreading the cheeks of his arse just a bit more with both thumbs. 

“Gorgeous,” he breathed, his eyes flicking to the stormy, lust-blown grey before he raked them down from Draco's clenched jaw, over the straining line, the jumping pulse of his neck. The rapid rise and fall of lean, red-flushed muscles as he panted with every touch. The smooth plane of his stomach, rippling with the effort of holding still in Harry's grasp. “Fucking gorgeous.”

Draco's cock twitched, leaking a steady stream of clear fluid onto his abdomen, and Harry couldn't take it anymore. With one hand still kneading, he trailed the other up through stiff, springy hair to fist it around the base. Draco gasped, arching his back and grinding his arse against Harry's groin. 

“Harry,” he moaned. “Please, Harry, just—” 

“What,” Harry asked, beginning a slow slide, up and down, as the heated flesh in his hand quivered. “What do you want me to do, baby?” 

“Fuck,” Draco groaned. “What do you think I want you to do, you sop?”

Rearing up, he wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders, levering himself forward and pushing them into a seated position. Straddling his knees, Draco grasped the hem of Harry's t-shirt and shoved it up, over his chest, then his head, forcing his arms up. Harry watched, enchanted by this new, confident Draco Malfoy. 

When his arms were finally free, he snaked them around Draco's waist and bent to nibble at one sensitive earlobe, drawing mewling cries from that pale throat as slender fingers grasped at his shoulders and hair. They tightened, pulling his head back and Draco closed his own lips around the corded muscles of Harry's neck. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, moving his hands to fully cover Draco's arse. 

Draco ground his hips into Harry's, panting in his ear, and threw one hand out behind him. In the blink of an eye, he grasped his wand, muttering spells in quick succession, and Harry gasped when his jeans vanished. He didn't even have time to adjust—to the cool sheets against his arse, to the hot slide of Draco's skin against his—before a nimble hand closed around the shaft of his cock, driving all coherent thought from his mind. 

Leaning back, Draco tossed his wand aside and clutched at Harry's shoulder, eyes locked hungrily on his own hand as he squeezed it over the sensitive glans and back down. Harry watched, mindless with lust, lost in the sensation, as Draco did it again, and again, leading him deftly to the very brink before gripping him hard, choking the climax he built. 

On a ragged breath, Harry reached forward, blindly, but his hand was swatted away. As Draco released him, whimpering, he rose on his knees and positioned Harry's cock at the tight ring of muscles at his entrance. If Harry could think clearly, he would have protested. Surely Draco needed to be prepared first? But he couldn't think, couldn't tear his eyes from Draco's face as he lowered himself, impaled himself agonisingly slowly. 

Draco's shuddering breath fluttered against his jaw, bringing reality crashing back, and Harry gripped his hips to still him, biting back a cry of pleasure as the hot, slick channel closed around the head of his cock. 

“Shit, Draco!” he grit, fighting the urge to push him the rest of the way down, to bury himself and  _ take _ . “A little warning, maybe?” 

“Sure thing,” Draco gasped, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself halfway on Harry's cock. “I'm going to fuck you now, Potter. Hope that's acceptable.”

“Jesus fucking—” In spite of Harry's grip, Draco lowered himself further, his jaw slack and his brow furrowed. 

“Fuck,  _ yes! _ ” he groaned when he was fully seated. His hair framed his sharp face, a tangled mess falling loose from the knot he wore all day, a halo glowing where the light hit it. Angelic. Until he opened his mouth. “Fuck me, Potter.” His hips rocked, jerky little movements that slid Harry free of his heat for brief moments at a time. “You do know how, don't you?” 

When Harry looked up into the stormy eyes, they twinkled with something akin to mischief, and a smirk twisted those lips. Growling, he tightened his grip and surged forward, pinning Draco on his back and burying himself all the deeper with the altered position. Draco laughed, looping his arms over Harry's shoulders and locking his ankles around his waist. 

He was fucking gorgeous, Harry thought again. Everything about him. And he was sprawled beneath him, demanding to be taken. So, Harry bid farewell to what little control remained, pulled his hips back, and snapped them forward, revelling in the cry that fell from Draco's throat as he threw his head back against the mattress. 

Setting a bruising pace, Harry thrust into the pliant, clenching heat, again and again, until every breath Draco took was a cry for more. Until sweat dripped into his own eyes and fell onto the pale skin below him. When Draco screamed, arching his back and pushing himself harder onto his cock, Harry braced his knees and angled to hit that spot again, shuddering with every thrust. 

“More, Harry!” Draco cried. “Harder, please! I'm— I'm so close—” 

Fisting a hand in Harry's hair, he tugged, bringing their lips together and holding him close when the motion of their bodies would have dragged him away again. Panting hot breath into his mouth as a whine started in the back of Draco's throat, gaining momentum with every moment until it exploded in a cry so loud, Harry wondered anxiously if they'd remembered silencing charms. 

But the thought didn't last. Draco was clamping around him, his body spasming as his orgasm rocketed through him. Harry could do little more than hold on, his hips still pumping when his own climax hit him, and after, fucking Draco until his body had milked the last of him through his cock before collapsing over him. 

“Fucking hell,” Draco panted, a laugh tinging the edges of the sound. “Wow.” 

“Wow?” Harry asked, trying to work up the energy to shift so he wasn't crushing Draco. “Don't think I've ever gotten a wow, before.”

“Well, that means only one of two things. Either, I'm the one who was amazing here, or the other men you've fucked are imbeciles.”

Harry laughed, finally rolling to his side and pulling Draco tight against him. “Please,” he scoffed. “You know it was you.”

“Oh, I know.” Draco beamed, that mischief lighting his eyes again. “But that doesn't mean the other men you've fucked aren't imbeciles.”

“Possibly,” Harry yawned. Snuggling into his pillows and Draco's still-damp neck, he let sleep creep over him, mumbling absently, “But that's why the Snitch is worth so many points…”

“Harry?” Draco asked, and a sharp jab at his shoulder startled Harry awake. “Oh, no, Potter. You can't just pass out on me—” 

“M’not on you, anymore,” Harry argued, slurring a little. 

“I'm starving,” Draco went on, poking him again. “Come on, feed me.”

Harry sighed, then drew a long, deep breath and rolled himself away from Draco and the centre of his big, warm bed. “Come along, then,” he said, gesturing for Draco to follow as he strode naked from the room. 

-

“So,” Harry began, propping his bowl on one knee and leaning back to rest against the coffee table. “University? A Muggle university?”

Draco snorted. “I knew you wouldn't let that go.”

“Why should I? It's huge, and you know it.” Dipping his finger into the bowl, he brought it to his lips, sucking off the sauce from their midnight meal of leftover bolognese. Following the movement as he was, Draco nearly missed his next question. “What did you study?” 

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “All of the basics; literature, maths, history. I even took a few arts courses. But my focus was science. Chemistry, primarily. Forensics, eventually.”

“Never would have pegged you for a science nerd,” Harry quipped, sniggering, and Draco swatted at his knee. 

“No? I've never been anything else. Potions is a kind of chemistry, and I happen to be very good at it.” Setting his bowl aside, Draco slid to the floor, tangling their legs and smoothing a hand up his thigh as Harry stretched. “What about you?” 

“What about me,” Harry asked, covering Draco's hand with his own in that casual way he was coming to appreciate. 

“Auror? I would have thought you'd had your fill of dark wizards.”

Harry chuckled, setting his own bowl beside Draco's and reaching for the beer he'd been nursing while they ate. “I've always wanted to be an Auror,” he explained. “Ever since I learned they existed.”

“You never wanted to try anything else?” Even as he asked, Draco knew what he would say. 

“Why try something else when you know what you want?” 

“That's fair. I've never expected to be anything but a Potions Master.”

“Right. I did work in George's shop, the summer after eighth year,” Harry said. “But, who actually wants to work in a shop forever?” 

“Unless they own it, of course,” Draco agreed, nodding. “You could afford to open a shop. You could afford to do anything you like.” 

“And I like catching the bad guys.” He flashed a grin, closing his free hand around the back of Draco's neck. 

Draco smirked, leaning into him when Harry closed the distance between them, capturing his lips in a slow, sweet kiss. A liquid pull in his belly reminded Draco they were both gloriously naked. Kneeling, he straddled Harry's thighs, all but writhing in his arms, rocking his hardening cock against Harry's and gasping at the sensation. For what felt like an eternity, they sat like that, lost in the sensuous rocking of hips, the gentle press of lips and slide of tongues. 

“Potter,” Draco sighed, resting his forehead against Harry's. “Take me back to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	11. Chapter Ten

A tap at his window drew Harry from the bed and Draco groaned, burrowing deeper into the warmth he left behind. 

“What the hell kind of time is this to be sending mail?” he demanded into a pillow. “Tell them to fuck off.” 

“Much as I'd love to, I don't think it's my place,” Harry chortled, flopping himself onto the bed and edging the letter under Draco's nose. “It's for you, gorgeous.”

“Fuck me.” Levering himself up, Draco glared at the parchment envelope for a moment before the return address filtered through the haze of sleep and sex. Snatching it up, he sprang back to kneel on the bed. “Shit. It's from Nate.”

“Nate?” Harry asked, a frown in his voice. 

Draco looked up, fingers working to tear the seal and shake the letter loose. “Nathaniel Greene, the colleague I told you about.” Glancing back down, he scanned the letter, skimming over the greetings and reminiscence that usually accompanied long overdue correspondence before coming to the point of the letter. 

“So, this is about the necklace, then?” Harry asked, reclining against the headboard to watch him read. 

“Yes,” Draco hummed, nodding absently. “Listen to this. ‘I haven't heard of the necklace, itself, but that isn't terribly surprising. Ruby, however, is a relatively neutral stone. It can be used for light or dark purposes equally, due to its nature. It acts as a conduit, a magnifying glass if you will, to focus the natural power of the witch or wizard using it, as well as the spell itself. 

“‘Chances are your thief is planning some sort of ritual. If they're working alone, the necklace could easily be the most important item. Although any ruby would do, this one could hold special meaning or its history could have led the thief to choose it, specifically.’”

Draco frowned, flipping back through the pages. He'd have to reply, simply to answer all the personal questions, but that seemed to be everything important to their case. Shuffling the letter back together and into the envelope, he looked up to find Harry also frowning. 

“A ritual?” he asked, and Draco could see the gears turning in his head. “And we can assume the other items are important to the spell…”

“That does seem likely,” Draco agreed, nodding. “Those items belonged to somebody.” 

“Yeah, Lucas,” Harry said, nodding. “That's the name in all of those books. We're thinking a nursery, but I have no idea—” 

Rising to collect his trousers, Draco shook his head. “If it  _ is  _ a nursery, Lucas’ nursery, what does he want with the items? Nostalgia?”

Harry snorted. “Not likely. What kind of spell could call for the contents of your childhood bedroom?” 

“I can look through Father's library, but it might take some time.” Perching on the edge of the bed, Draco slipped his shirt over his shoulders, eyes downcast as he buttoned it. 

Harry flinched, but nodded. “You do that. I'll see if I can find records of a Lucas during the war.”

“You still think—” 

“I think—” Harry said, moving to sit beside him, determination hardening his handsome features, “—that ten years is the longest anything that was stolen sat in those shops, aside from the necklace. I'm guessing he sold off his belongings during the war and now he needs them. It's the best lead we have.”

“You're right.” Standing again, he leaned down for a quick kiss of which Harry took full advantage, snaking an arm around his waist and pulling him into the space between his legs. “Stop that,” he admonished, but looped his own arms over the bare, toned muscles of Harry's shoulders. “We have work to do. Not the least of which is feeding those children.”

“They're still sleeping,” Harry crooned, tilting his head back to meet Draco's eyes. 

“You don't honestly believe that, do you?” Scoffing, he pulled away, dragging Harry to his feet as he went. “The sun has been up for at least an hour. They're awake.”

Harry laughed but pulled on a pair of denims and followed him across the corridor. At the door of Teddy's bedroom, they paused, listening for sounds of life from within. They didn't have to wait long before a squealing giggle erupted, followed quickly by Teddy's voice hushing the baby. Draco smirked at Harry's eye roll, then swept into the room. 

“Good morning, boys,” he sang. Bending to lift Scorpius from his cot, Draco laughed as Teddy rushed back to his bed, muttering “I told you so!” “Who's ready for breakfast?” he asked, jiggling his son until he was squealing again. 

“Oh, me!” Teddy cried, accusation forgotten as he bounced back out of the bed. “Can we have pancakes?” 

“That sounds fantastic,” Harry agreed, ruffling the boy's hair. “Tell you what, why don't you get started on those and I'll go brush my teeth?” 

Teddy giggled, beaming up at Harry. “I can't make pancakes,” he insisted, slumping his shoulders in exasperation. 

“You can't? Well, then scratch that. What if  _ I  _ start the pancakes and  _ you _ brush your teeth?” 

“Okay!” Teddy shrieked, barrelling from the room. 

“You're something else, Potter,” Draco said, a small smile lighting his eyes. “You're great with him.”

“Just him?” Harry asked, holding his hands out and smirking when Scorpius all but threw himself into them. 

As Harry tucked one arm around his son, listening intently while Scorpius babbled incoherently, it hit Draco again. He must have known the minute Harry kissed him, but that was neither here nor there. Harry Potter held his heart, as surely as he held Draco's son. And fuck if he knew what he was going to do about it. 

In the end, he did the only thing he could do in that moment. He followed Harry from the room and through the house to the kitchen. He sat numbly at the table and watched Harry putter around the kitchen, talking to Scorpius while he mixed ingredients and lit the hob. He willed himself to acclimatise to the clenching in his chest and the odd bubble filling his ribcage. 

“Anything special in the pancakes, Draco? Blueberries? Chocolate chips?” 

Teddy ran into the room, then, throwing his arms around Harry's middle. “Chocolate chips!” he begged. 

“I wasn't asking you, Ted,” Harry admonished. As one, all three of them looked to Draco. 

“I—” Draco began around the lump in his throat. “Chocolate chips sound lovely.”

“Yes!” Teddy ran across the room to grace Draco with a hug of his own, then threw himself into his own chair. “And whip cream!” 

Harry chuckled. “And whipped cream,” he agreed, nodding. Scorpius held out a hand when he pulled a bag of chocolate chips from the cupboard and Harry dug out one chip, holding it up for the chubby fingers to grasp. “Don't tell your daddy,” he teased. 

Scorpius’ head whipped around, his little face split in a wide grin. “Papa!” he squealed, holding the chip out for inspection, and Harry laughed. 

“I told you not to tell him, mate! What kind of secret keeper are you? First you smell like wee, then you go tattling like that.” 

Rising, Draco sniggered. “Are you suggesting my son is untrustworthy because he needs a new nappy?” he asked, lifting Scorpius and settling him against his chest. 

“I would never,” Harry assured him, quirking a grin and bending to steal a kiss. 

“Good. I'll just go change him, then,” he said, moving toward the door. 

“Hurry back, or Ted will eat all of the pancakes.”

-

“Where is it?” she wailed, swiping her ingredients off the table with a wave of her arm and starting again. “It can't be gone!” 

I was cowering in the corner, where I'd been since we arrived home, watching her with a sort of resignation. She couldn't find the blanket, said it was like it had vanished. She'd been looking for hours with nothing to show for it. The longer she looked, the more frantic her search became, the more wild her eyes grew, the shorter her temper. 

I knew it was best to stay out of her way when she was like that, but I also found it easier to do so from within the same room. Safer, by far, to watch the descent into chaos than to be taken by surprise in a weak moment. 

The first time that happened was shortly after she hid our house. I was hungry, unbearably so, but Mother never called me down for a meal. They were already sporadic, by then, but she would eventually call for me. Except, she didn't. I didn't even know how long it had been since I'd eaten, but she didn't call. 

So, as I still believed I could, I went downstairs myself and searched for a snack. Before I could find anything, she burst into the kitchen, screaming, calling me a thief. While I stood there, dumbfounded, she took a fistful of my hair and yanked me from the room, still screaming. 

Unfortunately, that experience wasn't enough. It took many such events for me to learn how best to handle her rage, but I did. Eventually. 

“Yes!” she shouted, dragging me from my thoughts. “Yes! Here it is!” 

I jumped at the pitch of her voice, wondering—as I often did—if our neighbours could hear her. Wishing they could. 

“I found you!” This was whispered as she bent close to the map. “Wiltshire.”

“What's in Wiltshire?” I asked, hoping the triumph in her voice would lend me some measure of safety. 

“The blanket, you idiot!” 

I didn't dare tell her I was asking  _ why _ it would be in Wiltshire, but I didn't need to. 

“It must have been somewhere unplottable. But I have it, now. Don't worry, my darling, you'll be home soon.”

I shuddered as she grinned madly at her map, muttering under her breath. At least, with the blanket found, the last item she needed, I felt safe enough to retreat to my basement room. She'd collect me when she was ready to retrieve the blanket. 

-

Harry would gladly have stood in his living room long after Draco and Scorpius disappeared into the flames, grinning his goofy grin, if not for Teddy tugging him into the garden for a bit of flying. They had lunch with Ron and Hermione in just over an hour, then it would be time to take Teddy home. It was as good as they were going to get. Not to mention Harry had finally agreed to let him try his hand at an actual Snitch.

Collecting their brooms, Harry followed him into the garden. Draco was still on his mind, though, and he cast his gaze over the barren little plot that used to be a potions garden, in Sirius’ time living at Grimmauld Place. He’d long since cleared away the dead and overgrown plants with the intention of beginning an herb garden. That had never happened, though, and Harry found himself wondering if Draco would appreciate returning it to its former glory.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Harry was kicking himself for it. This—whatever  _ this  _ was—hadn’t been going on long enough to begin emptying a drawer and decorating a nursery. Draco wouldn’t be brewing potions in his house anytime soon, much as Harry was already hoping he would. One day, of course, but not yet. As far as he knew, Draco wasn’t even interested in anything like that.

“Come on, Harry!” Teddy shouted, and Harry shook the thoughts away. He’d work up to it, in time. For now, he had a godson to fly with.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows doubtfully as he pulled the little box from his equipment bag. “This is a real Snitch, Ted. It won’t stay under twenty feet like your practice Snitch.”

“I know, Harry,” he groaned, rolling his eyes in spite of the excited smile on his face. “You already said. Can we just go? We’re running out of time!”

“Slow down, there. We have some rules.” Harry chuckled when Teddy sighed but nodded. “First: you stay in the garden. The wards extend up high enough, but they won’t keep you from being seen if you leave the perimeter.” He paused until Teddy nodded again, then continued. “Second: no diving. It’s too dangerous and you need more practice. We don’t have enough time right now, okay?” Another pause, another nod. “And, lastly—”

“Have fun!” Teddy shouted, smirking at the mock irritation in Harry’s face.

“That’s right. Now, mount your broom.” Teddy threw one leg easily over his broomstick, then looked up expectantly. With a flourish, Harry lifted the hinged lid and released the Snitch, watching as it flitted up and away. “Ready?”

“Ready!” 

Together, they kicked off, streaming into the sky with trailing laughter that was caught and carried away with the wind. Harry pulled to a stop about forty metres up, scanning the garden, below and above, for a hint of gold. When he spotted it, hovering over a tree below, he grinned and urged his broom in another direction, swooping past Teddy and into a wide arch over his patch of grass in the grid that was Grimmauld Place. 

“Where is it, Harry?” Teddy shouted, looking around wildly. 

“Oh, no!” Harry replied, shaking his head gravely. “You have to find it. That's what being a Seeker is all about!” But he skimmed the sky for it again, anyway, pleased to note that Teddy was doing the same. 

“There it is!” 

“No, Ted,” Harry said sternly, halting the boy before he could begin his descent. “It's too close to the ground, it'll be gone before you get there. Unless you dive, and—” 

“And I can't dive,” Teddy sighed. “So, what do I do, then?” 

“You wait. Watch it until it's somewhere you can get to it, safely.”

“Okay.” 

As they spoke, the little golden ball was already fluttering away. Teddy screwed his face in determination and kept his eyes trained on it until it reached the roof of number twelve. He clenched knobby knees around his broomstick, shifted his grip, and lowered his shoulders, ready to take off the moment it cleared the building. 

When it did, though, he jerked back up, blinking in confusion. “Where'd it go?” he asked while Harry turned in not quite graceful somersaults, laughing. “It disappeared!” 

“Nah,” Harry said when he was upright again, still chuckling. “You just need to learn how to look for it. Against the grass or the building, it's easy. You have to be able to find it against the sky, too.”

A sparkle to his left caught Harry's attention and he spurred his broom into motion, leaving Teddy looking after him. Moments later, the Snitch was within reach, speeding ahead of him by mere centimetres. Reaching forward, he put on a burst of speed and closed his fingers around the sun warmed metal. 

Looping back around, he smiled at Teddy's whoop of vicarious triumph, but turned his attention to the Snitch. This was a professional Quidditch ball, which was a bit outside of a ten-year-old’s capability. It wasn't limited to a preset height, like the practice Snitch, but it also wasn't set to a reasonable speed. 

Pulling out his wand, Harry fixed that before releasing it again, just as Teddy reached his side.

“That was wicked!” 

“Thanks, Ted. Now you do it.”

When they touched down thirty minutes later, both were breathless and windblown, but beaming with pride. Teddy didn't manage to catch the Snitch this time, but Harry knew it wouldn't be long before he did. By the time he started second year, he'd be ready for the Quidditch team. 

As quickly as they could, they readied themselves for lunch and stepped through the Floo. 

“Uncle Ron!” Teddy cried, as soon as they arrived. “Guess what we did, Uncle Ron!” 

Ron laughed, catching the boy as he greeted him with an enthusiastic hug. “You caught a niffler and decided to keep it as a coin purse?” 

Teddy giggled, swatting playfully at the hand Ron dropped to his head. “No. We played with a real Snitch!” 

“Brilliant! Did you catch it?” 

“No, but I will!” 

“‘Course you will, mate. Hiya, Harry.” Stepping around Teddy, he greeted Harry with a one-armed hug and hearty clap on the back. “Busy day?” 

“Not really,” Harry laughed. “Where's Hermione?” 

“It's her turn to make lunch. Not to worry, though, I've got takeaway on standby.”

“I heard that, Ronald.” Hermione sailed into the room, passing him a squirming Rose and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Put her down for her nap, would you? Lunch is almost ready.”

“How'd you get her to calm down?” Ron asked, incredulous. 

“I listed the uses of potions ingredients.”

Harry laughed, startling the sleepy infant and earning a glare from her mother. But Ron seemed unfazed. 

“I tried that, it wasn’t working!” 

“You only know five uses of two ingredients, Ron. She needs variety.” Ron chuckled and headed down the corridor to the bedrooms. Hermione chuckled, then turned to Harry and Teddy. “Hi boys, how are you doing today?” 

“We played with a real Snitch, Aunt ‘Mione!” 

“I heard!” she replied, matching his enthusiasm. “That's wonderful!” Ducking down to hug Teddy, she gave him a little pat on his head, pointing to the bookcase when he asked if he could read before lunch. 

“You must be so proud,” Harry laughed, moving in for his own hug and bending to press a kiss to Hermione's cheek. 

“I am. Now if only I could get you and Ron to read.”

“Hey, I read!” 

“For fun, Harry?” 

“I've a book on my bedside table, should I ever get the time to read it.” Hermione chuckled, swatting Harry's arm before turning back to the kitchen, leaving him to trail behind her. “So, what's for lunch?” 

“I found a recipe for a pasta salad, perfect for summer. And sandwiches, of course. You know I can't cook.”

“I heard that, Hermione,” Ron quipped, striding into the room and circling Hermione's waist as she mixed a sauce into pasta. “Thank you for seeing to Rose. She was out before her head hit the pillow.”

“Good.” Craning her neck, she pecked a kiss to his cheek, then nodded toward the table. “Would you set the table?”

Ron complied and Harry followed, taking the forks and glasses while he took plates and bowls. As he helped with the domestic task, Harry watched his friends, a small smile playing about the corner of his mouth. He wanted what they had. And he wanted it with Draco. 

But he could wait until Draco wanted it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	12. Chapter Eleven

Over the next week, they fell into a sort of routine. During the day, Harry and Ron would juggle their search with whatever case came their way while Draco dealt with evidence and brewed potions, using any downtime to pore through the books he felt were tame enough to carry into the Ministry. He still forgot to eat unless Harry brought him food, but getting him through the door at the end of the day was a bit easier as he was fairly easily tempted by sex. Not that he’d admit it.

What was he supposed to do? Refuse the saviour of the wizarding world? The man he was steadily falling deeper in love with? For work? Not likely.

As things stood, Draco had amassed a sizable stack of books at Grimmauld Place, and Scorpius’ temporary cot was still in place. He was even certain he’d misplaced a few articles of clothing there at some point. He’d have to remember to ask Harry. All in all, it was ridiculously domestic and Draco found he couldn’t be happier.

The words of his current book blurred for the umpteenth time at the thought, prompting Draco to snap the volume closed and rise. If he couldn’t work because of the man, he might as well take advantage of the fact, right? Checking the progress of his DNA analysis, he gave in and slipped out of the lab, deciding that touching base on Harry’s progress was a good enough excuse, even though they'd done so that very morning.

The DMLE was abuzz, Aurors flitting to and fro as they went about the day's cases, memos flying, assistants rushing about fetching reports and whatnot. Draco sailed through the chaos, winding around desks and dodging people, until he reached the offices along the back wall. This was were the higher ranking Aurors worked, those who handled actual cases, instead of beat work. 

Harry and Weasley weren't the Aurors called in when one's neighbours refused to use silencing charms when they hosted wild parties in the middle of the night. They handled the bigger fish; illegal potions rings, smuggling, serial offenders. And Draco's work usually included working with the Aurors of their rank. 

Their door was open, so Draco walked in just as Hermione's lips turned down in a frown. “What do you mean? What Muggleborn registry?” 

Muggleborn registry? The—

Harry winced, avoiding her gaze. “The one from the war, when the Death Eaters had control of the—” 

“Harry!” she all but shrieked. “You can't use that! Why does it still exist? It's completely unethical!”

“I know!” Harry rushed to answer. “I know it is, Hermione. But it's one of the only records we have from the war.”

Draco, still unnoticed, glowered. What the fuck? 

“And you think your thief is on it? You'd use it to prosecute a Muggleborn?” 

“‘Mione—” 

“No, Ron. It's wrong. You  _ know  _ it's wrong.”

“Pardon me,” Draco interrupted, and all three turned to him. 

“Draco,” Hermione greeted, coldly. “Did you know about this?” 

“I'll make an educated guess and assume Potter and Weasley have decided to utilise the Muggleborn registry created by the Death Eaters to search for our suspect.” Draco arched a brow when she nodded curtly. “Frankly, I think it's a good idea but, no, I wasn't aware.”

“Well, of course  _ you  _ think it's a good idea,” she sneered, ignoring the twin gasps from Harry and Weasley. “That registry should have been destroyed years ago.”

Stung, Draco nodded, holding up a hand when Harry opened his mouth to argue again. “Undoubtedly. However, since it wasn't, it would be foolish not to use it. No other record has produced a viable suspect, no reported thefts or missing persons, no bills of sale from the time period we need, aside from the auction that sold off most of the items.”

He could see Hermione soften, her expression torn between righteous indignation and her long-standing desire to learn, even when obtaining the necessary information was difficult. 

“Hermione,” Harry said softly. “This bloke killed a man. An innocent Muggle who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Shouldn't we do what we can to stop him?” 

She sighed, shoulders slumping. “I suppose. But I don't like this, Harry. It sets a dangerous precedent.”

“Our goal is to catch a murderer, not to persecute Muggleborns. Anything we find will be cross-referenced. Right, Harry?”

Harry gave Draco a grateful smile and nodded. “Right.”

Hermione looked around at each of them, sighing again. “All right. Just… Be careful, okay?”

“Of course, ‘Mione,” Weasley said, finally approaching his wife and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We might not even find anything, anyway. Now, let's get out of here, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay. We'll see you this weekend, Harry?” 

“Of course,” he said, rounding his desk to embrace her. “It'll be okay, Hermione. I promise.”

“Okay.” Turning back to Draco, she frowned again, seemingly thinking rather hard about something, before speaking. “I'm sorry, Draco. About what I said. That was out of line.”

Draco shrugged and offered her a teasing smirk. “Think nothing of it. I've heard worse.” 

His mind travelled back, briefly, to the first time he'd seen Hermione after he returned to England. It had been awkward, tense, but oh so necessary. He'd apologised for his treatment of her, again. In some cases, he found, apology letters simply weren't enough. Words weren't enough. 

“Yes, well. All the same, I'm sorry. Why don't you join us this weekend? It's Ron's turn to cook, so there's no chance of accidental poisoning.” 

“Sure,” Draco laughed, shooting a glance toward Harry when he snorted. “I think I'd like that.”

She nodded, standing stiffly for a moment longer, then strode out of the office with Weasley for their weekly lunch. 

“Thank you, Draco,” Harry said, sobering. He stepped forward and stretched out a hand to run it up and down Draco's arm. “I appreciate your help.”

Draco glared, pleased when Harry's expression shifted to one of wary confusion. “The Muggleborn registry, Potter?” he demanded. “What were you thinking?” 

“But— you said—” Harry sputtered, jerking his hand back as if he'd been burned. “I thought—” 

“I gave Hermione the logical reasons, which I sincerely doubt you even considered. Do you know how dangerous this is?” He stepped closer, jabbing a finger into Harry's chest and forcing him back, cornering him. “The press would have a field day! Harry Potter, relying on the Death Eaters’ Muggleborn registry to solve the case? And do you know what the Wizengamot will think?” 

“I just thought—” 

“No, Harry, you didn't think. You'd better tread lightly. Cross-reference everything, be positive you find the right man. I will not be tied to this if our thief is released because you used unethical means to catch him.”

“Okay,” Harry said, catching Draco's arms and shaking him lightly. “Okay, Draco. By the book, I swear. We'll—  _ I'll _ do this right.”

“Good.” He tried to step back, but Harry held him in place. 

“You didn't come up here to yell at me, did you?” 

Draco smirked. “Of course I did. I could hear you making an enormous prat of yourself all the way from my lab.”

“Of course you could,” Harry sniggered, tugging him closer. He brushed his lips against Draco's jaw, nibbled up and around until he sucked one lobe into his mouth. “You know, you're hot when you're angry.”

“Oh? Is that why you made a habit of pissing me off in school?” 

“Damn right, it is.” The office door swung shut with a bang, startling Draco. Before he could react, though, Harry was spinning them around, swapping their positions and pinning Draco to his desk. “You're taking a lunch break, right?” 

Draco nodded, arching into Harry's hands as they pinched open the buttons on his waistcoat and pushed the fabric aside. 

“Good. Ron and Hermione will be gone for an hour or—” 

“Wait, wait,” Draco said, halting Harry with a hand on his chest and wicked grin. “Weasley’s desk looks much softer, don't you think?” 

Harry froze for a moment before throwing his head back on a bark of laughter. “God, you're a little shit. No. We're not fucking on my best mate's desk.” 

“It was worth a shot,” Draco conceded, wrapping both hands around the lapels of Harry's robes and pulling. 

-

“Find anything yet?” Ron asked, setting a teacup at Harry's elbow on the way to his desk. 

“Nothing useful,” Harry sighed. It had been nearly two weeks, and nothing. Tossing his quill onto the stack of parchment, he lifted the cup and slumped back in his chair. “Five Lucases so far, and each is deceased. One was four, for fuck’s sake.”

Ron frowned. “Shit. But, well… that could fit, couldn't it? Draco said the fingerprints were small, right. Maybe Lucas was a kid and, I don't know… didn't really die, or something?”

“What, like some fourteen year old kid is breaking into shops all over London? We already decided it couldn't be a kid, remember? The trace on underaged witches and wizards?” 

“Fuck, that's right. You know, I still think it's possible it's a woman.”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. Could it be? There was no evidence to support that. But then, there wasn't exactly any evidence to discount it either. Sitting up straight, he flipped through the pages until he found the the boy's entry, the Harrises. Curious, Ron came to read over his shoulder. 

_ Miranda Harris, 25, Blood Traitor - Escaped  _

_ Roger Harris, 30, Muggle - Deceased  _

_ Lucas Harris, 4, Halfblood - Deceased _

Beneath the entry was an account of the Death Eater raid that destroyed this little family and Harry skimmed over it, desperately wishing he didn't need to know. 

“That could be it, Harry,” Ron said, straightening. “A Pureblood would have tons of heirlooms like Beedle the Bard and the rest. Maybe even the necklace. If she escaped, especially after Lucas died, she'd probably want them back.”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed, making a note of the last known address for the Harrises. “But there's no way everything was an heirloom. Draco's still working on finding a spell that might call for these kinds of things. Why don't we go check out the house? Maybe she's still there.”

“Alright, yeah.” Striding across the room, Ron collected his wand and Auror robes. “We can stop for lunch while we're out.”

“Good idea,” Harry laughed as his stomach added a rumbling plea at the thought of food. “Better leave the robes, though. It's a Muggle neighbourhood.”

They Apparated to a nearby alley and made the rest of the way on foot. As they approached the house, it was clear that it hadn't seen any kind of upkeep in years. The two story terraces on either side were freshly painted, with trim gardens and pretty gabled windows. To all who saw them, they were homes. Lovingly tended, inhabited. 

Number fifty-eight stood out like a sore thumb. 

The door hung at an odd angle, held up by one rusty hinge. The windows that weren't boarded up were grimy from years of disuse and to say the paint was chipping would be generous. Above one window, there appeared to be evidence the roof had collapsed, and the footpath leading to the door was uneven, overgrown weeds pushing the pavement into a jagged mess.

“I'm willing to wager no one has lived here since the war,” Harry sighed, balling his fists and jamming them on his hips as he stared up at the desolate building. 

Before Ron could answer, a call came from across the road. “Afternoon boys!” 

Turning, they found a plump little woman with excessively curly hair and a bright, friendly smile waving at them.

“Afternoon,” Harry called back, lifting a hand in greeting. 

“Is somebody finally going to do something about that eyesore, then?” she asked. 

Harry and Ron exchanged looks, then jogged across the road. It wouldn't hurt to talk to the neighbours. Maybe someone remembered something. 

“Hi,” Ron said, holding his hand out over the woman's hedge to shake. “I'm Ron. This is my partner, Harry. We’re from Scotland Yard, investigating reports of a squatter. How long has the house been like this, ma’am?” 

“I'm Madge. We aren’t in any danger, are we?”

“No ma’am,” Harry assured her with a warm smile. “The owner is just worried someone is endangering themselves.” It was a well rehearsed lie, the same they used whenever investigating abandoned buildings used by criminals.

“Thank goodness. You never can be too careful, especially in old buildings.”

“Yes ma’am,” Ron agreed, nodding. “This one been empty long?”

“You know, sometimes it seems it's always been that way. You know how it goes. House is abandoned, folks avoid it, kids throw rocks at it. And before you know it, the old Harris place is a local haunted house.”

“People think it's haunted?” Harry asked, turning back to the house. 

“Oh, sure. Old empty house makes all kinds of noises. It's rubbish, of course, but it is entertaining to think about.”

“So it's been empty for a while? Ten years, maybe?” Ron pressed. 

“Oh, no. Not so long as all that. Maybe three or four years, now.”

“That's all?” Harry asked, incredulous. “It looks like it's been ages.”

“Odd, isn't it? How quickly things die when you leave them to it.”

It didn't make sense, Harry thought. There was far too much damage for that little time. “Do you remember the Harrises?” he asked, absently. 

“Sure, I do. Miranda, lovely girl. And her husband— oh, what was his name? Rufus? Reginald?”

“Roger?” Ron supplied. 

“Yes, Roger! He was a handsome bloke.”

“Was?” Harry asked, turning back to the woman. 

“Yes, terrible tragedy. They had a home invasion, must have been ten years ago. I was still in school at the time. Poor Roger was killed. I don't think Miranda was ever the same. She kept to herself for a time, after that. Didn't really see her again until little Lucas started primary school.”

“Lucas?” Harry and Ron asked, simultaneously. 

“Yes,” Madge nodded, a little taken aback. “Their little boy. I used to see him going to and from school.”

“What happened to them?” Harry asked, now giving the woman his entire focus. “Did they move?”

Her face darkened, a cloud of sadness falling over it. “I don’t rightly know what happened to them. Social workers came around, first, then the police. They said she was beating the boy, but I don’t believe it. The next thing we knew, the roof caved in. Police didn’t find any bodies, but the house has been empty ever since.”

Smiling warmly, they thanked Madge for her time and turned to jog back to the Harrises’ house, still processing the wealth of new information.

-

I was bored. 

You’d think, with my life, boredom would never really be an issue, but there were times. In all honesty, I enjoyed those times; the times when Mother was away and I could do as I pleased. And it happened more often than not. She rarely took me with her unless we had a mark to case.

Do you like that? I love that term, although I didn’t learn it until my sixth year at Hogwarts. I was very into Muggle novels that year, true crime specifically. I felt a sort of kinship with the thieves, the young hoodlums whose lives perpetuated crime. Fancy that.

At that point, though, I still didn’t know how to read above a primary school level, so I didn’t spend much time trying. There was only one place in that house where I felt at home, even after it was ripped away from me. Even after it was filled with the belongings of another boy and was no longer  _ mine. _ I’d sit in Lucas’ bedroom for hours while Mother was away. She hadn’t caught me, yet, as she usually Apparated straight to her own bedroom upon returning. Which gave me the time I needed to hear she was back and beat a hasty retreat.

Lucas’ bedroom though, my bedroom, was a place where Mother still loved me. Where I had toys to play with, homework to complete, a full belly and a warm bed. Some of my toys were still there, packed away in the closet and forgotten by all but me. Except I didn't dare take any toys from the box. 

Instead, I would lie on the bedroom floor for hours, until I could no longer smell the must of the carpet, until my hips ached from the hard floor beneath me, and try to remember which toys were there. I had no way of knowing if I was right, of course. Mother would surely know if I took them out. Worst case scenario, putting them away would take too much time. She'd find me. 

That day, she was out searching for a way to get past the wards of Malfoy Manor. That, as it happens, is what was in Wiltshire. After locating the blanket, Mother Apparated there. It didn't take long before she was raging, again. She was furious that Lucas’ blanket ended up in the hands of “those murderous Death Eaters,” as she called them. She said the enormous Manor house was warded, protected against intruders. It wouldn't be as easy to enter as a Muggle charity shop. 

For a while, it was just like any other day that she left me home alone. I lay on the musty carpet, drawing patterns in the fibres and breathing deeply when I heard a friendly shout through the boarded up window. 

Jumping to my feet, I crossed the room and peered through a slat in the boards. There, jogging across the street, were two men. The ginger was a stranger, but I recognised the dark mess of hair, the glinting metal spectacles of the other. 

Harry Potter, Mother had called him. An Auror. His job was to catch criminals, and I was a criminal. What was he doing on this street? In front of my house? 

My breath came quickly and I scanned the bedroom. The lamp in the corner. The tea service on the wooden chest. The mirror above the bed reflecting the painting on the wall opposite it. All the evidence of my crimes was there, in that room. Shifting my gaze back to the house across the street, I watched, willing my heartbeat to slow lest they hear it across the short distance. 

But it didn't listen. And, before long, the men were returning, standing in front of the house, again. My heart beat even faster. They started up the footpath and I couldn't take any more of it. I dove into a corner of the room, between the window and the closet, curling myself into a ball and awaiting discovery. And, of course, subsequent incarceration. 

The door swung open below, and footsteps echoed hollowly throughout the house. If I could register anything above my own debilitating fear, I might have retained valuable information. The other man's name. What they were looking for. What they were finding. As it was, all I could hear was my own panting breaths, my own pounding pulse, my own whimpering sobs. 

And they were getting closer. I heard them open the door to the toilet, to Mother's bedroom. To the linen cupboard. That left only one room, and I was a sobbing mess on the floor of that room. I could have sworn, when that door knob turned, my heart gave out altogether.

“Clear,” Harry Potter called. Stunned and shaking uncontrollably, I lifted my head a fraction. He was still stood in the doorway, talking to the ginger man. “What do you think?” 

“Someone definitely lives here. There's food in the fridge, clothes in the bedroom. There's a mattress in the basement that looks lived in. Do you think that's Lucas’?”

“Probably. She disillusioned the house. Maybe she wanted to keep them safe.”

“In the basement?” 

Harry Potter sighed, looking around Lucas’ bedroom and I froze. I was in plain sight, nearly hyperventilating from my tears, choking on my sobs, surrounded by my guilt. Why wasn't he arresting me? 

“We'll put Aurors on the house. This is definitely where she's living.” He turned to leave, then paused, fingering something just outside of the room. “This is her and the boy?” he asked. 

“S’pose so, yeah. That's a really old photo, though. Think she still looks the same?”

“I don't know, but she looks familiar. Anyway, we'd better get out of here before she comes back.” The other man nodded, following close behind him. 

“If this is here,” the ginger man’s voice carried back to me. “We just need to find where she's keeping the loot.”

Their voices trailed off and, after what felt like eons, the door closed behind them. Tentatively, I rose, stumbling back to the window. I could just make them out as they rounded a bend nearby. Finally free from my paralysis, I raced through the room and down into my basement sanctuary.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	13. Chapter Twelve

“Let me get this straight,” Draco said, letting the heavy tome of all things dark and deplorable lie flat on the Weasley-Grangers’ kitchen table. Across the table, Harry nodded while Weasley bounced a bushy-haired ginger infant on his knee. “Miranda Harris is your suspect. Her son died in a Death Eater raid during the war, except he isn't dead. And, now, she's stealing his nursery furnishings and childhood possessions. Have I forgotten anything?”  

“Nope,” Weasley said, sighing wearily. 

“But—” Harry began, looking between Draco and Weasley hesitantly. “Well, we don't have supporting evidence, yet. We have an eyewitness account that Lucas survived the attack, since the neighbour saw him coming and going up to three or four years ago. And there's evidence that someone lives in the house but, if she's really our thief, she's keeping everything somewhere else. There was nothing in the house.”

Draco frowned. “Have you cross-referenced records? Birth and death records at St. Mungo’s, reports from the attack? Hogwarts should have a Lucas Harris on file if he's scheduled to attend.”

“If he was thought to be dead—” 

“Doesn't matter,” Draco interrupted Harry's question. 

“That's right, Harry,” Weasley agreed. “The list of students at Hogwarts isn't based on death certificates. If he's alive, he's still on the list.”

Harry nodded, again. “We haven't checked those sources yet, no. First thing Monday morning, though. Now that we have a name to search, it should be relatively easy.” 

“Good. Let me know what you find. It could help me narrow my search.”

“Have you found anything at all, yet?” Weasley asked, glancing up when Hermione walked in, cradling a very sleepy Scorpius. 

She passed him to Draco and he took the moment to gather his thoughts. This new information threw out his theory, but he still needed to share it. They wouldn't like it. 

Settling Scorpius against his shoulder, he turned back to Harry and Weasley. “I've been searching based on keywords such as ‘heirloom’, ‘nursery’, ‘possessions’ and then filtering the results by how advanced the spell is. If it's something a single witch or wizard can perform or if it should take more power to pull off.”

Sighing, he glanced around. Three pairs of eyes were watching, waiting patiently for him to get to the bloody point, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn't like the results, but who would?

Taking a deep breath, he continued. “So far, the most likely results suggest resurrection.” 

As expected, Weasley’s head snapped back, his jaw slack. Hermione let out a little gasp as her hand flew to her throat. Harry clenched his jaw, his knuckles going white on the tabletop. 

“Resurrection? I thought that was impossible. Isn't that why Death gave the brother the resurrection stone?”

“What?” Draco asked, taken aback. “Harry, The Three Brothers is a fairy tale, what are you—” But Harry, Hermione, and Weasley were all staring at him hard, and Draco got the feeling he was missing something important. “Okay, fine, assuming they're  _ not, _ the resurrection stone was supposed to resurrect the dead in their own form. It didn't work, obviously, but that was its goal. Resurrection  _ spells  _ have existed for centuries. Millennia, in all likelihood.”

“What's the difference?” Harry asked, still sitting stiffly. 

Weasley answered him, his expression dark. “Resurrection spells were banned in the dark ages. They don't bring a person back into their own body, mostly, and you don't want to think about the ones that do. Most require a sacrifice. They bring the soul of the person back and put it in a host body.”

“Human sacrifice?” Harry all but shouted, startling both babies. He winced, lowering his voice. “Sorry. But,  _ a human sacrifice?” _

“Yes, Harry. The spells don't kill the body, but the original person ceases to exist.”

“In theory,” Hermione said weakly, finally finding her voice. “There was evidence to suggest that the host was still there, but unable to control their body. Slowly going mad in their own mind.”

“It's important to remember,” Draco said hastily, “we don't know that this is what she's planning. If Lucas is alive, there's no need to resurrect him, is there? And most of the spells require a bone of the person you want to resurrect. Without that, the worldly possessions will do the trick, but it takes quite a bit more of them to manage it.”

“Which is what's been taken,” Harry said. 

“Yes, of course. But that's why we need to be sure whether or not Lucas is alive. Whether or not this Miranda Harris is the thief. If we get this wrong…”

“It could be too late,” Harry finished. “It could already be too late. There hasn't been a robbery in weeks.”

“That doesn't mean we stop looking” Weasley said, gently. 

The kitchen timer sounded and he stood, passing Rose to Hermione so he could finish cooking their meal. Draco looked down at his own child, adamantly refusing to consider what he would do if he ever had to live without the bright eyed little boy. He wasn't strong enough to risk losing his parents during the war, and he highly doubted he could be strong enough to accept losing his son. 

-

The next thirty minutes passed in a daze for Harry. Hermione slipped away to put Rose to bed and Draco decided to take Scorpius home, rather than lay him down only to wake him to leave, later. When he returned, he took the seat beside Harry, sitting close and pressing one leg fully against his. 

Harry took the comfort he was offering, pouring all he could muster into returning that comfort. He could imagine the thoughts rushing through Draco's head, the wondering, the doubting. They were different worries than those Harry was focused on. Draco worried about his son, understandably, and his own morality. Harry knew that, together, they'd keep Scorpius safe, just as he knew Draco was a better man than he thought himself. 

His worry was that they'd fail, that this case would result in another death before they could catch the thief. That, as they sat in solemn silence, someone was suffering, dying. 

But he couldn't allow such thoughts. It was a slippery slope that only led to misery. He couldn't do anything on a Saturday night and, difficult as it was to set the case aside, he needed moments like this. He couldn't stop living because people were in danger. He'd never live again if he let himself. 

So he laid a hand on Draco's thigh, smiled weakly when he looked up, and ate his dinner. They would do what they could, when they could. 

“I-is there anything I can do?” Hermione asked tentatively, doing little more than pushing food around on her plate. “I want to help.”

Ron opened his mouth, but Draco nodded. “Do you think you could help these two get a look at birth and death records before and during the war? Looking for anyone named Lucas, primarily Lucas Harris.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding emphatically. “I'm sure I can do that. What will Harry and Ron do, in the meantime?” 

Harry chuckled. “Yes, Draco, what will we be doing?” 

Draco glared, but answered in a clipped tone. “You're going to owl Headmistress McGonagall about their records. Weasley is popping out for lunch.”

“Oi,” Ron cried, trying to glower. 

But Draco's words had the desired effect. Hermione was giggling, her eyes shining with equal parts love and amusement. Ron was chuckling, shaking his head as he loaded his fork with roasted meat and vegetables. Harry squeezed Draco's hand, offering a grateful smile. 

“Thanks for that, Malfoy,” Ron quipped, then sighed. “I don't know why I thought research would end when we left school.”

“Because you're a fool,” Hermione answered fondly, patting his shoulder. “A big, soft, lovable fool.”

“Careful Ron,” Harry joked, content to join in the teasing. “You'll turn into your dad.”

“Oh, bloody hell.”

When dinner was finished and each had polished off two glasses of wine, Draco rose and insisted they head home. Then he took Harry's hand, dragging him to the Floo, and through to Malfoy Manor. 

“Is this okay?” Harry whispered, half expecting Narcissa to materialise from the shadows. 

“Where's that Gryffindor courage?” Draco teased. “Come now, don't you know Mother adores you?” 

“She does? Why?”

“As far as I can tell, because you feed me.” Draco cringed when Harry laughed, but he was smiling. “Come along, I'm exhausted.” 

“Actually,” Harry said, halting Draco's progress. “Could I borrow an owl? I'd like to write to McGonagall, sooner rather than later.”

Draco's smile softened and he nodded. “Of course. I've a quill and parchment in my rooms, and I can summon Mother's owl for you.”

Harry squeezed his hand in thanks, then followed him silently through the house. For brief moments, the years melted away and Harry was seeing rooms as they'd been a lifetime ago. He shivered when they passed the ballroom where Hermione had been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, balked at the entrance hall he'd been dragged through, and quietly thanked whatever deities would listen that they didn't approach the entrance to the dungeons below the house. 

When the large, wooden door of Draco's bedroom finally closed behind them, Harry took a deep, steadying breath, reminding himself that this was also the place where Draco saved his life, all those years ago. 

“Harry?” Draco asked. “Are you okay?” 

Harry gave him a small, reassuring smile and nodded. “I just, er— I wasn't prepared to be here. But it's okay,” he rushed on when Draco's expression morphed into one of horror. “It's fine, really!”

“Harry, fuck! I'm so sorry, I didn't—” 

“It's okay, Draco. Really.” Cupping his hands around Draco's face, he smoothed his thumbs over the embarrassed patches of red on his cheeks, leaning in to kiss the downturned lips. “It's okay. Honestly. Now, parchment and quill are on the desk?” he asked, jerking his head toward it. 

“Yes,” Draco said weakly. “Yes. I'll summon the owl. Careful not to wake Scorpius.”

Harry turned to see the cot sitting beside the enormous bed and the rest of his discomfort vanished. Approaching as quietly as he could, he looked down at the boy. The pale blond hair, the rosy cheeks that maintained a hint of their colour, even in sleep, the impossibly tiny hands. He was tucked gently in a pale blue blanket, one arm lying over the top, the other hand fisted beside his head as he slept.

The rush of love he felt left tears stinging his eyelids and a sweaty fist clamping around his heart. He would keep this. This was everything he wanted. Draco, his son. A family. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, watching Scorpius sleep, but Draco returned with an owl perched on his forearm. He cleared his throat and strode toward Harry. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

Harry nodded. “Everything is perfect.” He kissed Draco again before taking the owl and settling at the desk. 

While Harry wrote, Draco padded around the room, preparing for bed. He was just turning down the duvet when Harry sent the owl on its way, so he slipped out of his shoes and jeans and climbed into the opposite side. The moment he’d pulled the duvet over himself, Draco was across the bed and settling against his side, head resting on one shoulder and an arm draped possessively about Harry’s waist.

“We’ll sort this out, Harry,” he murmured.

Harry smiled, even though Draco couldn’t see it, and kissed the top of his head. “Of course we will.”

-

I hid. 

I considered running, but I was far more afraid of Mother than I was of Harry Potter and his ginger friend. So, I hid. I didn’t really feel the passing of time, but it was at least a day before Mother returned. And another hour or more before she sought me out.

“Boy!” she cried from the top of the basement staircase. “Get up here!”

I tried to move, I really did. My body wouldn’t cooperate. My muscles ached from shaking, my limbs were weak—likely from hunger. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate anything. And my mind was still frozen in fear. 

Harry Potter hadn’t seen me. It was a crushing realisation, after that moment in Knockturn Alley. And yet, it was also the reason I was still there. The reason I was a free man. Er, boy. And okay, I also wasn’t free. But I wasn’t in Azkaban, either.

“Lucas!” she screamed, and I jumped, but I still couldn’t force myself to my feet.

Within moments, I felt the cool, heavy sensation of her spell settle over me, and her voice rang through my addled mind.  _ I called you, boy!  _ her voice scolded.  _ Come!  _

Although I still couldn’t move, my body rose to her command, carrying me up the stairs and through the kitchen to stand before her. She was sitting on the sagging sofa in the living room, seething in her rage at my disobedience.

“You come when I call you,” she demanded.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks, I could feel them through the numbness the spell caused. “I couldn’t,” my voice answered, evenly.

“You couldn’t?” 

“I couldn't.”

“What is that? Why are you crying?”

“I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid?”

“Yes.” 

A gust of breath wooshed out and she frowned, impatiently. “What are you afraid of? What happened?”

Beneath the spell, I knew her curiosity wasn’t about concern for my well being. In all likelihood, she’d throw back her head in manic laughter when I answered. But the spell compelled me to answer, nonetheless.

“Harry Potter was here,” I said.

“What?” Her face paled, her dark, mad eyes widened. “What are you on about? Harry Potter has no reason to come here!”

“He did. He came with another man. They spoke to the lady across the street, then came into the house.”

“You’re lying! If they came here, they’d have arrested you! They’d have taken Lucas’ things! You’re lying!”

“They didn’t see me, or the bedroom.”

“What? What do you mean they did—”

“I don’t know. They looked right at me, but didn’t see me. When they left, the ginger man said they’d have to find where you hid the loot.”

“But— No. That’s impossible.” Her confusion cleared, quickly replaced by determination. “It doesn’t matter. Tonight, we’ll have the blanket. Nothing will matter, after that.”

She rose, leaving me standing before the empty sofa, and rushed around the house collecting what she’d need. When she was done, she closed one ice cold claw around my wrist and Disapparated. The part of me that was still numb, still unable to move, was disoriented by the sudden, crushing darkness. After a moment, though, my eyes adjusted to what miniscule light the moon overhead provided.

We were in a forest. Surrounded by trees and the sounds of life, I stood stiffly and waited for her next order. Without a word, she dropped the sack she carried, drew her wand, and began to cast. At one point, she disappeared entirely, leaving me alone in the darkness. My mind shivered, cried out, jumping at every sound from the forest, but my body stood still and complacent, waiting for orders.

And, when she returned without warning, I began sobbing internally. I didn’t want to be here. I never wanted to do these things, but this was different. I wanted to curl up on my mattress and never move. I wanted a mother who would comfort me when I cried. I wanted out.

She stowed her wand and turned to me, breathing heavily. “Okay, the wards are down. You’re going in through the servant’s entrance. Malfoy’s bedroom is on the second floor, third door from the stairs. The nursery can’t be far off. You must appear non-threatening, Lucas. The blanket is covered in protective spells and, if the baby feels fear, it won’t let you near him. Do you understand?”

I tried to shake my head, to scream that I wouldn’t do it. 

“I understand,” I said.

“Good. Go, quickly!”

I went. I pleaded with myself, not caring if I’d gone mad, begging myself to stop. To think about what she was asking— _ demanding _ —of me. The closer I got, the more terrified I became. The house looked like something from a nightmare; shadows stretched like the gaping maws of unspeakable monsters, the cold white of the pillars and walls shone bright in the moonlight, like so many teeth waiting to crunch through my bones.

Unable to stop, I hurried around the side of the house to a disused door that stood half the height of a man. The Malfoy’s trust in their wards was clear in the fact that the door was not locked. Yanking it open, I hunkered down and moved quickly into the pitch black corridor. I took the stairs two at a time, racing up the narrow passage until a thin line of light winking under another half-door caught my attention. The second floor.

It was as easily entered as the last door and, suddenly, I was standing in a dimly lit corridor, the sconces on the walls bright to my eyes. It was lined with doors and portraits of sleeping men and women. I wondered, absently, if that was because this part of the house was meant for sleeping, but I couldn't dwell on the thought. Much as I’d have liked to.

I moved methodically, as I never did on my own, opening door after door and avoiding the one Mother said belonged to the Malfoy man. I checked every room, rushing in and searching for a cot like the one in Lucas’ bedroom, but there was nothing. With every passing moment, I knew what was coming. What I couldn’t avoid, no matter how I tried.

Without any encouragement from me, my feet carried me back into the corridor and down. Back to the door I was meant to avoid. The room where, apparently, the man and his child both slept.

Screaming internally, I watched in horror as my hand reached out and turned the knob, slowly opening Draco Malfoy’s bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	14. Chapter Thirteen

“What in Merlin’s name—  _ Draco!”  _

Harry woke with a start to Narcissa’s scream. It blended together with Scorpius’ wails, reverberating and echoing off the stone walls of Draco's bedroom. Draco, himself, was sitting bolt upright, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on his mother's form. 

Realising, belatedly, that his own vision was limited, Harry shouted a quick  _ Accio  _ as Draco lifted the lights around the room. There, beside the baby's cot, frozen like a deer in the headlights, stood a boy. He was slight, no more than nine, with dark brown hair, wary eyes, and tattered clothes. 

He was still bent over the cot where Scorpius lay screaming. 

Both men were out of the bed and across the short distance before Narcissa was halfway into the room. As Draco dove to lift his son to safety, Harry clutched at the too-thin arms of the boy as he tried to run. 

“What the fuck is this?” Harry shouted, ignoring his instinct to flinch when the boy cowered. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Scorpius!” Draco cried, struggling to lift the baby. 

“Draco, is he—”

“I— I can't lift him.” He tugged frantically, but Scorpius wouldn't budge. “What did you do?” he demanded. 

The boy flinched and began struggling, himself, to no avail. Harry backed away a step, pulling the boy along, but he didn't move. 

For the first time, Harry saw the faint blue light emanating from the cot. It encompassed the boy's arms up to his elbows, and was slowly creeping up Draco's. 

“What is this?” Draco was asking, now tugging his arms in an attempt to free himself without releasing Scorpius. 

“Draco, don't struggle.” Narcissa had reached their side and was pointing her wand past all three, directly at Scorpius. “It's a spell. Mr Potter, I suggest you keep ahold of that boy.” 

Lifting the wand, she brought it back down in a complex dance of intricate movements, speaking the incantation in a language Harry didn't recognise. All at once, he stumbled backward, dragging the boy away from the cot with him, and Draco's arm jerked violently before he regained control and lifted Scorpius out. 

“What the hell was that, Mother?” Racing to the bed, Draco laid Scorpius on the duvet and proceeded to search him for injury, cooing as he continued to scream, his little chest juddering with every shallow breath. 

“It's the blanket,” Narcissa replied. She was all but wringing her hands, watching nervously as Draco worked. “It's supposed to protect him. Is he—” 

“He's fine,” Draco sighed heavily, relief washing over his face. He looked back to Harry just as he was rising to his feet, yanking the boy along with him. “Likely because of the blanket,” he continued, turning back to Narcissa. “Couldn't you have warned me?” 

“I assumed you'd reject the idea,” she said haughtily, squaring her slim shoulders. “I bought it at Borgin and Burkes. I know how you feel about—” 

“For fuck’s sake, Mother!” Draco exploded. Tucking Scorpius into the crook of his arm, he stormed past Harry toward his fireplace on the far wall of the room. “I'm taking him to St. Mungo’s. Harry, can you—” 

“Go,” Harry said, gently. “I can handle this.”

“Right.” Glancing back, he froze, his eyes wide with shock. “Harry, that's the boy. The one from—” 

Harry looked down at the boy in his grasp. He wasn't even struggling, just stood there. When Harry lifted his head to examine his face, he found tears streaming through long-dried tracks down his cheeks. 

“Well, fuck,” he muttered. This was the boy they met on Diagon Alley. “It's okay, Draco. You go. I'll come when I can.” 

“I suppose I'd better go as well,” Narcissa said, striding after him. “They will likely want more information about the blanket. I suggest you dress before following, Mr Potter.”

Harry jolted, remembering for the first time that he'd gone to bed in his pants and a tee shirt earlier that night. Brilliant. 

When they'd gone, Harry dragged the boy to the chair at the desk and shoved him into it. “Alright. I suggest you tell me why you're here,” he said in his best Auror voice, crossing his arms in a way he doubted was as effective as usual, considering his state of undress. 

But the boy didn't answer. His dirty fingers clutched at the armrests, his shoulders hunched, and tears continued to stream from his eyes, but he didn't utter a sound. What kind of child cried silently? 

Hunkering down, Harry studied his face again. He was thin, likely malnourished—which meant he could have been older than he looked. His hair wasn't as dark as it looked, either, he guessed, beneath the grease and grime. His clothes were filthy and at least two sizes too small. And his eyes were hollow. 

“Fuck!” Rising, Harry threw out a hand to summon his wand from under the pillows of Draco's bed. When he caught it, he levelled it at the boy's chest. “ _ Finite _ !” he cried, hoping against hope that the damage wasn't permanent. 

Immediately, the boy's cries filled the room, sobs wracking his small frame as his misery came pouring out of him. “I'm sorry, Harry Potter!” he wailed, collapsing into himself in the chair. “I'm sorry! I didn't want to, she made me!” 

He repeated the apology, mindlessly rocking, until Harry couldn't take it any longer. He sank to his knees and wrapped the boy in his arms, swaying and whispering reassurances. After a time, he finally calmed, going limp in Harry's arms. 

He was unconscious. Cursing under his breath, Harry lifted him and laid him on the bed while he found his jeans and stepped into them. Dressed enough, he collected the still form and dashed to Draco's fireplace, Flooing directly to St. Mungo’s, himself. 

He'd see that the boy was looked after, then he'd find Draco and Scorpius. 

-

Draco was seething. He wished he could shout some more, but Scorpius was sleeping again, worn out from the event, and he was loathe to wake him. 

Even so… 

“I can't believe you would do this, Mother!” he hissed. “That blanket could have been dangerous!” 

“It wasn't,” she insisted for the umpteenth time since they arrived. “Frankly, that blanket is the reason your son is safe and that boy is in Mr Potter’s custody.”

“That's beside the point, and you know it. How can you arbitrarily trust anything sold in Borgin and Burkes? You know their reputation better than most—”

“I look after my own, Draco. I always have. And that boy is as much mine as you are. I will protect him.”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again. Of course she wanted to protect him, he knew that. “I'm sorry,” he sighed. “I know that. I do, it's just— fuck, I've never been so terrified in my life.”

Rising, she moved to his side and carded a hand gently through his hair. “I know, darling. I'm sorry. You're right, I should have told you about it. If only so you'd know the incantations.”

“Yes, you should have. And I expect you to teach me them as soon as possible.” One pale brow winged up as she studied him and Draco sighed again. “Provided the blanket didn't cause any damage, I don't see the harm in using it. It did protect him from that—” 

A knock sounded and the door of the little room eased open. “Draco?” Harry asked, poking his head through the gap. 

“Harry,” Draco sighed, standing and moving to meet him as he entered the room, entirely. He looked dead on his feet, dark circles under his eyes and a dejected slump to his shoulders. “What took you so long? Where's the boy?”

Harry didn't answer right away, simply wrapping him up in his arms and holding tightly while his breath brushed hot against Draco's neck. 

“Is Scorpius okay?” he asked, eventually, lifting his head to look into the cot where he slept. 

“He's fine, as far as anyone can tell. The Healers want to keep an eye on him until morning, just to be sure.” Pulling away, Draco urged Harry into the chair beside the cot. “What happened?” 

Harry sighed, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. “He was Imperiused, Draco,” he said, his voice as heavy as his head. “It wasn't even cast properly. When I ended the spell, he cried until he passed out, and I brought him here.”

He looked up then, his eyes dark with anger and determination. “What do you think the chances are that this kid isn't Lucas?” he asked. “Or that his mother isn't the one who put him under that curse?” 

Draco frowned, trying to remember the woman they met that day. Something about the encounter niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite place it. 

“It would be a rather convenient coincidence, otherwise,” he said, nodding. “But he doesn't look fourteen, does he? And what do you think the goal was? Why send a child into my home to attack my son?” 

“Perhaps she knows we're on her trail?” Harry offered, scrubbing a hand threw his hair. “Ron and I were in her house, Friday. Maybe she thinks we found someth—” He paused, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Fuck. Maybe we did.”

“I thought you said there wasn't any evidence in the house.”

“Not of the robberies, no. But she had photos on the walls. Likely herself and Lucas, I think. I thought she looked familiar, I even said so to Ron.”

“You've seen her before?” Draco asked. “Do you remember where? Was she the woman on Diagon Alley with the boy?”

Harry nodded, but he was still frowning. “I think she was, but… Draco, the boy in those pictures- it's not the same boy. If that was Lucas, he'd be blond.”

“Blond? You're sure?” 

“The boy in the photos had hair as light as yours. Even if it darkened with age, it's unlikely it would be the colour of that boy's hair.” He stood, suddenly, and made his way back to the door. “And the other kid had green eyes. Fuck.”

Turning to Narcissa where she sat quietly on Scorpius’ other side, Draco gave her a pleading look. 

“I'll look after him,” she assured him. “You go do your job.”

With a nod, he turned and raced after Harry to the spell damage ward. As Harry led the way to the child's room, Draco jogged to keep up. 

“What the hell is going on, here?” Harry muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning room numbers until they came to the right one. 

Inside, the boy lay deathly still on the hospital bed. He was pale and far too thin, but clean. His hair was a rich chestnut, overgrown so it felt nearly too his shoulders in jagged lines, as if cut by an untrained barber. Along his arms, bruises in varying stages of healing stood out in sharp relief against the pallor of his skin, and another graced his left cheek. 

“Fuck,” Draco breathed. “What happened to him?” 

“I'm going to assume, for the time being, that you don't want to know.” Harry grit his teeth, his hands clenched at his sides, but walked gingerly to his side and took the visitor's chair closest to the bed. 

“Excuse me,” a nurse said, striding into the room and drawing the attention of both men. “Can I help— oh, Auror Potter. You're the one who brought the boy in?” 

“Yes,” Harry nodded curtly. “Where is his Healer? I'd like to speak with her.”

“Of course,” the man said. “I'll see if she's available.”

“Thank you.”

Unsure what else to do, Draco took the seat beside Harry, scooting it closer, and waited with him for the Healer to arrive. 

-

Have you ever felt like you slept a week but, when you wake up, you realise that it’s only been an hour or so? Maybe your head is pounding, maybe your back is stiff. Maybe you had a dream so long it felt like a lifetime but was probably only thirty seconds. Whatever the reason, that’s what I felt when I woke in the small, sterile room.

I could hear voices, make out some of what they were saying, but my eyes didn’t want to open and my body felt heavy.

“But there’s no permanent damage?” a man was asking.

“Not from the spell, no.” This was a woman’s voice. There was a melodic lilt to the words, almost like she was singing. “It’s clear he’s been neglected, all but starved, and the bruises indicate long-term physical abuse. Treating malnutrition is easy, but his recovery is likely to be a lifelong process. He’s been through a lot.”

Were they talking about me? No one talked about me. No one ever noticed me.

“How long will you need to keep him?” the man asked. He sounded odd. The impatience I understood, but there was an edge to his voice that I couldn’t place. “We need to find out who he is and get him home.”

But I didn’t hear the woman’s response. Home? No! Mother would be so angry! Anywhere but there. I’d stay in that bed forever, if that was what it took. 

I didn’t realise I’d made an audible sound until another man spoke, closer to me. “Harry, he’s waking up.”

The sound of voices was replaced by that of footsteps and, a moment later, a cool sensation flowed over me as a large hand was laid gently on my head. The woman spoke again, calm and kind.

“Can you hear me?” she asked. I didn’t answer, tried not to move a muscle. “His vital signs are normal. The potions have done their jobs, but he’ll need actual care. You said you wanted to take him home. Do you think that’s wise?”

“I’m fairly certain the woman who did this to him isn’t his mother,” the first man said, and the hand on my head began to stroke my hair. Harry, the other man had called him. Harry Potter? Why would he be so kind to me? 

“You don’t know that, Harry. This boy is clearly too young to be Lucas, but she could have had another child.”

Without a thought, and without the determination to hold them closed, my eyes flew open to stare at the men beside me. How did they know my name? Or about the other Lucas? I tried to ask, but my mouth refused to cooperate, opening and closing soundlessly.

“Whoa, there,” Harry Potter said, looking down at me. “Take it easy, son.”

His voice was soothing, but everything that led to this point was racing through my mind. I shook my head, horrified, and tried to sit up. The hand on my head stilled, holding me in place as the woman cried out.

“Oh, no you don’t. Don’t try to move, just yet, boyo. I’m almost done with my scans.”

She held a wand over my chest, I saw then, and a cloud of pale purple light trailed from the tip to cover my chest and stomach, leaving behind a cool sensation and warm scent.

“Hey,” Harry said, and I looked back to him. “It’s okay. You aren’t in any trouble. Can you tell me your name?”

I gawped at him, confused. He knew my name. The other man, Draco Malfoy, had already said it. I opened my mouth again, to answer anyway. The sound that followed was less of a word and more of a croak, so I swallowed, tried again.

“Lu-Lucas,” I finally managed, and Harry Potter frowned. 

“You’re Lucas?” he asked. I nodded under his hand. “The doc here says you’re no more than ten years old. Lucas Harris would be fourteen, if he’s alive.”

I shook my head, but I wasn’t really sure how to reply to that. “I— I’m not that Lucas…” I said, finally. “He’s the Lucas Mother loved. Voldemort killed him.”

“What?” Draco Malfoy demanded, leaning forward in the chair he’d been watching me from since I opened my eyes. “What does that mean?”

Again, I didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t something that had ever been explained, you see. I just knew it to be true. “Mother loved Lucas,” I repeated. “But Voldemort killed him. I’m Lucas, too, but she doesn’t love me. Not anymore.”

Harry Potter’s face softened, even as the green of his eyes hardened, reminding me of broken bottles. “And—” he began, then cleared his throat. “She used to love you?” he asked, haltingly.

I nodded, remembering a time when she laughed with me, hugged me, sent me off to school in the mornings and welcomed me home in the afternoons. Tears pricked at my eyes and I lowered them. Draco Malfoy coughed.

“Well then, Lucas. Harry tells me you were under an Imperius curse. Do you know what that means?”

That was the word Mother said whenever she cast the spell she used the nights we had to go to the shops. I nodded, again.

“How long were you under the curse?” he asked. 

“Not very long,” I muttered. “But it… it wasn’t the first time.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but I couldn’t take any more. “I’m sorry,” I cried, looking up into his cold, grey eyes. “I didn’t want to, honest! I never wanted any of this. I just—”

“Hey,” Harry Potter said again, and his hand moved through my hair again. “Shh, it’s okay. We know that, Lucas. That’s what the Imperius curse does.”

“Are you going to arrest me?” I asked. The tears finally fell then, rolling down the sides of my face. “Am I going to Azkaban?”

“Of course you aren’t,” Draco Malfoy scoffed. “You’re underage and you were Imperiused. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Mother said… But, I stole that stuff. Didn’t you see it?” I demanded peering at Harry Potter. “You looked right at me, and everything was there! Why didn’t you see it?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, staring at me like I had two heads. “I looked at you?”

“When you came to the house. I was right there. I knew you didn’t see me, but I thought for sure you saw the stuff. In Lucas’ bedroom!”

“Okay, okay. I didn’t see you. Did your mother have any wards around that room? That would have—”

Wards were what were around Malfoy Manor, Mother had said. They kept people out. We didn’t have anything like that in the house, just the spell on the outside that made it look worse than it was. I shook my head vigorously and Harry Potter stopped talking.

Draco Malfoy had more to say, though. “I want to know why you were in my house. What were you doing to my son?”

“To your— No! I wasn’t doing anything to him. Mother wanted the blanket. She said Borgin and Burkes sold it and, when she found it again, it was at your house.” I was panting by the time I finished speaking, the tears coming faster. I thought of the baby in that cot. The first time I saw him, he was curled up in Harry Potter’s arm while they walked through the alley, laughing together. I’d never hurt him. Not even if Mother ordered me to. 

“The blanket?” Draco Malfoy asked. 

“Yes! It’s the last thing Mother needs. She was so angry when it wasn’t there.”

“That blanket is one of the things she’s stealing?” Harry Potter asked, but he wasn’t talking to me. 

Draco Malfoy looked just as surprised. “The last thing. Fuck. What does she need it for?” he asked me.

“I- I don’t know,” I stammered. “I think she wants to have another baby. Another Lucas. Better than me. She’s been trying for a long time.”

“Trying to get pregnant? To, er… to have a baby?”

“I think so. But she said she needed all of Lucas’s things, first.”

“Harry,” Draco Malfoy said, his face going white. “Is it still there?”

“Yes, of course. There wasn’t any reason for me to bring it. Does this mean—”

“It’s definitely a resurrection spell. We need to find her.”

“I’m finished up here,” the woman said, causing all three of us to jump. I forgot she was there and, by the look on the men’s faces, they had too. “I’d still like to keep Lucas for a while, and maybe set him up with a mind healer. Why don’t you two get going? It’s nearly dawn.”

“I’ll go see if the Healers are ready to release Scorpius. Mother must be exhausted.” When Harry Potter nodded to him, Draco Malfoy slipped from the room.

“Right. I’ll be back to check on you,” Harry Potter said to me, and I nodded. “I’m not going to arrest you, but I can’t send you home, either.”

“I- I don’t want to go back,” I told him, hesitantly.

“Then you won’t ever have to. I might need you tell some more people what you told us, but not today. Today, I need you to get some rest, okay?”

I nodded, my eyes already drooping. I couldn’t remember when I’d slept, last. Or eaten, but that would have to wait. Harry Potter patted my head, gently, then rose to leave just as the door banged open again.

“They’ve already released him! Mother took him home!”

“That’s good, isn—”

“Harry, think! She got past the Manor’s wards. The blanket is in my house, and we have her sacrifice!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	15. Chapter Fourteen

As they raced through the corridors of St. Mungo’s and turned toward the Floo banks, Harry drew his wand and cast a Patronus, sending it to inform Ron of the situation and request backup meet them at Malfoy Manor. Draco scanned the row of fireplaces for one that didn't have a queue of witches and wizards already waiting their turns.

“There's one,” Harry said, spotting an opening and grabbing Draco's hand. 

The moment they were through the flames, stumbling into Draco's bedroom, Harry knew something was wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, his senses pricking as he held his wand aloft and waited for Draco to run to the cot. 

A moan drew his attention to the bed just as Draco cried, “It's gone! Harry, the blanket is—” 

Harry held a finger to his lips and nodded toward the bed. It was empty, the duvet still a mess from when they'd bolted from it in the wee hours of the morning. Moving closer, Harry kept his wand trained ahead, looking for the source of the sound. 

When he saw it, he dropped to his knees and Draco cried out behind him. “What?” he demanded. 

Harry didn't answer right away, checking Narcissa's prone body for a pulse, for signs of injury. He didn't find any. Luckily, she'd just been stunned. 

“Mother!” Reaching his side, Draco fell to his knees, as well. “Harry, what's—” 

“She's just been stunned,” Harry assured him as he turned her gently to her back. “Give me a moment.” 

As quickly as he could, he cast Rennervate then, as her eyes fluttered open, conjured a glass and filled it with an Aguamenti before holding it to her lips.

“Easy,” he said. “Mrs Malfoy, what happened?”

“Mother,” Draco urged, desperately. “Where's Scorpius?” 

“I'm so sorry, Draco,” Narcissa moaned, shifting to a sitting position with Harry's help. “She was here when I got here. She was standing there just holding the blanket. I drew my wand, but I— oh, gods Draco, I'm so sorry. I wasn't fast enough.”

Draco pulled her into an embrace. “It's okay Mother,” he whispered. “You couldn't have known.”

Harry stood, fury tightening his muscles, and stormed toward the door. He had to find her, stop her, and he only had one place to look. If Lucas was telling the truth, everything she needed for her spell was in that house. 

“Harry!” Draco called. “Where are you going?” 

“To find Scorpius. Stay with your mother.”

“What?” In the blink of an eye, Draco was at his side, hooking a hand around his arm and spinning Harry to face him. “Not on your life, Potter! If you know where she's taken him, I'm bloody well going with you!”

“Don't be ridiculous, Draco!” Harry pleaded, trying to tug his arm free. “You aren't trained for this!”

“I don't care, that's my son!” 

“God damn it Draco, I'm not losing both of you!” Harry shouted. Draco looked like he'd been smacked, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. Harry sighed, resting his forehead against Draco's for a moment. “I love you, Draco, and I will not put you in danger.”

Draco's arms came up to wrap around his shoulders. “I can handle it, Harry. What I can't handle is sitting here waiting. I don't want to lose you, either, you prat.”

“I'll find him,” Harry tried, one last time. 

“And I'll help.”

A shout sounded from the Manor's grounds, announcing the arrival of Ron and the other Aurors. 

“Fine. But do exactly as I tell you.”

Draco nodded, grim determination settling over his aristocratic features. “Jinx!” he barked, turning when the house elf appeared. “See to Mother. And after we've gone, set up temporary ward around the Manor until I return.”

She nodded, her ears flapping against her head with the motion, and Harry and Draco hurried away to meet the Aurors. 

“Harry!” Ron called when they burst through the enormous front door. “What's going on? Did you get her?” 

“No. We need to go to the Harris house. She has Scorpius.”

“Fuck. You think she'll go back there? If the kid knew we were there, she probably does.”

“It's our only lead. Get everyone the address and send for Obliviators. We'll need them.”

“Right.” Nodding, Ron turned to the Aurors and began barking orders, dividing them into two groups and directing half to Harry. 

-

It was an organised sort of chaos. As the sun rose higher in the late summer sky, Draco watched Harry and Weasley brief the troops, giving orders like they were born to do so. Someone Disapparated and returned with twenty more witches and wizards, all wearing the robes of Obliviators. 

In what felt like no time, Harry was turning back to Draco and dragging him a short distance from the others. “I don't like this,” he growled. “But, if I can't change your mind, I need you to stay beside me at all times. Don't cast. She might be holding Scorpius and we can't risk him. If we get wands on her, someone will collect him and bring him to you. I don't want you in her line of fire, understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. We're about ready to go, so—” 

“Harry, what if she isn't there?” Draco cried, unable to stop himself asking. “What if she's taken everything somewhere else? What if—” 

“Draco, stop,” Harry interrupted, cupping his face in one rough palm. “You can't think about the what ifs right now. This is what we have to focus on. We'll take it from there. Okay?”

Draco nodded, biting back a sob. “O-okay. I'm ready.”

“Good.” Before Harry released him, he crushed his lips to Draco's for one brief, searing moment. “We'll find him.”

And then they were joining the Aurors and Obliviators Disapparating in pairs from the Manor's grounds. Draco held onto Harry's elbow as he spun on his heel, hoping desperately that Miranda Harris was just stupid or mad enough to go back to her house. 

When they arrived, teams of Aurors were moving into position as Obliviators fanned the perimeters and started toward the houses where curious neighbours were already coming to see what was happening. 

On Weasley’s signal, the point team forced the door with well placed Silencios and a modified Reducto before stepping aside to allow the others to pour through the opening. Harry and Draco joined the stream of eerily silent men and women, bypassing those who were checking for signs of traps or other occupants while Harry made a beeline for the room he'd thought was empty on his last visit. 

As they neared the room, sounds of life from within sent relief flooding through Draco. It wasn't over yet, but they were here. Harry's instinct had taken them where they needed to be. Of course, that didn’t make Scorpius’ screams any easier to bear. Draco looked around. By the time they reached the door, Aurors were standing at the entrance of every door, including what appeared to be a linen closet. The largest concentration was just outside the room where his son was crying for him.

On Harry’s mark this time, the Aurors moved, opening the door and rushing inside to the sound of angry shrieks over the steady stream of Scorpius’ cries. When Harry moved forward, Draco followed, staying close behind him.

Where the preparation had been organised and the execution had been silent, this was true chaos. Miranda threw herself in front of the cot, shooting curses and hexes, apparently any that came to mind. A rainbow of sparks rained down around them as she fired Jelly-Legs jinxes and Full Body Binds before she seemed to remember that there were more effective curses she could use. 

A litany of shield spells and stunners rang from the Aurors as someone threw a shield over the cot Miranda was dancing around. The ruby necklace hung from her neck and she held a dagger in one hand. Every breath that wasn’t dedicated to casting curses was spent screaming.

“You can’t do this! I need him!” She raged.

The necklace was true to its purpose, though, magnifying her magic. Around them, Aurors were dropping, some laughing uncontrollably from tickling charms, others writhing in pain from the Cruciatus. Yet more lay motionless, knocked unconscious by what stunners she managed to land. Her aim was atrocious but, what she lacked in skill  she made up for in the sheer number of curses she sent flying.

Draco stayed close to Harry, ducking when he swung around to throw a shield over an Auror, dodging the aim of another when she shouted at him. Before long, they were close enough for Harry to aim directly at her, opting for  _ I _ ncarcerous and Expelliarmus. 

When Miranda’s eyes lit on him, they widened. “You!” she screeched. “This is all your fault!” 

Her anger peaked and she seemed to glow with the magic coursing through her. She cast almost absently, flicking Aurors out of her way as she approached Harry.

“You couldn’t have killed him the first time? He took everything from me because you failed!”

“ _ Stupefy _ !” Harry shouted, but she swatted it aside with a wave of her wand.

“ _ Avada _ —”

“No!” Draco cried, shoving Harry away and waving his own wand. “ _ Sectumsempra _ !”

She wasn’t quick enough. Her jaw fell open in shock, her arms going limp and the room seemed to freeze, holding its breath. As if in slow motion, she fell, slumping to her knees, then her side, a pool of blood draining through the tattered remains of her clothes. 

Harry was the first to move, rushing to her side and attempting to staunch the bleeding. Draco simply stared, the shock of casting that spell sending his mind reeling. It wasn’t until an Auror laid a hand on his shoulder that he realised the shield had been removed from the cot. The man handed Scorpius to Draco and everything flooded back.

Falling to his own knees, He cradled his son, rocking mindlessly as sobs were wrenched from his throat.

-

“Auror Potter,” Ron said, approaching Harry where he was discussing the transfer of Miranda Harris with one of the Healers who arrived to collect her. 

“Thanks. I'll come by to sort out the paperwork soon.” The Healer dismissed, Harry turned to Ron. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Speaking of paperwork, let me tell you; I am  _ not  _ looking forward to this report. Somebody said Draco took her down?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I fucking told him not to cast but, you know, what can I do? He saved my life.”

“Well, shit.”

“Exactly. And now, I should take him home. The Healers were looking over Scorpius and said he was fine but Draco seemed pretty shaken up.”

“Yeah, ‘course. I'll wrap things up, here.” He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. “You'll both need to give your statements, of course, but that can wait. Take care of your family.”

Harry's heart swelled at the words, at the easy way Ron said them and the acceptance in his warm, blue eyes. Overwhelmed, he caught Ron up in a tight embrace. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron muttered. “Go on, get out of here before I make you catalogue all that shit.”

Chuckling around the lump in his throat, Harry did just that. Finding Draco in the crowd wasn't difficult. He was sitting on the front step of the Harris’ house, clutching Scorpius to his chest and staring unseeing at the motion around him. 

“Draco,” Harry said, softly. He still jerked, as if startled to find someone else there. “Come on, gorgeous. I'm taking you home.”

“Home?” he asked, confused. “Harry, I can't—” 

“Shh, it's okay.” Ducking down to his level, Harry cupped Draco's cheek, rubbing his thumb over his temple and trying to meet his eyes. “Not the Manor. We'll go to my place.”

“O-okay.” Draco nodded for a moment, then stilled again, finally looking directly at him. “What about Mother? She's waiting for me to—” 

“I'll take care of it,” Harry assured him. Hooking his hands under Draco's elbows, he lifted him to his feet. “Don't worry about it, okay?” 

“Okay.” Sighing Draco leaned into him, burying his nose in the crook of Harry's neck. “Thank you.”

Harry kissed the top of his head, then Disapparated, taking them straight to his bedroom. He settled father and son in his bed, then went to the kitchen to throw something together. Neither had eaten since the night before and it was nearly noon. 

When he returned with a sandwich for Draco and a bowl of puréed apple for Scorpius, he paused in the doorway. Draco was curled around his son, quietly sobbing. 

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered against the downy hair at the boy's temple. Scorpius had calmed down since the the attack, but he still looked around warily, his usual enthusiasm dimmed by the experience. “I'm so sorry. I'll never let anyone hurt you, baby. Never.”

“He knows,” Harry said, finally moving into the room and setting the food on his bedside table. “Believe me, he knows.”

“Harry. I thought you'd gone.”

“Not yet. You should eat something.” He smoothed a hand over Draco's forehead and through his hair. “I don't want to leave you alone. Is there anyone I can call to stay with you?” Draco opened his mouth, surely about to protest, but Harry hurried on. “I'm going to be a while. I want to get some of your clothes, and Scorpius’, and Narcissa will need to pack some things, as well. You shouldn't be alone that long.”

Draco's brow cleared, his eyes softening. “How long are we staying?” 

“As long as you need.” 

Forever. But he didn't say that. Draco loved him. It was enough for now. 

“I suppose, if she's not busy, you could firecall Pansy?” 

“Of course.” 

Harry bent down for a kiss before leaving to place the call. Twenty minutes and a brief synopsis of the situation later, and Pansy Parkinson was lying in his bed, spooning Draco and petting his hair. Harry smiled gratefully at her, then left again. 

When he arrived at the Manor, Jinx materialised before he could take more than a step into the receiving room. 

“Mr Harry Potter, sir!” she squeaked, not a small feat considering the gravelly pitch of her usual voice. 

“Hello, Jinx. Could you take me to Narcissa, please?” 

She nodded and turned to lead the way. The room was on the opposite side of the house from Draco's. He assumed it was her bedroom, which was confirmed when Jinx opened the door. 

Narcissa was sitting primly on an antique sofa, her hands clenched in her lap, but stood the moment she saw him. “Mr Potter—” 

“Harry, please.”

“Harry, then. Where's Draco? What's happened?” 

“Draco and Scorpius are both safe. They're at my house.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” 

Harry nodded, then looked briefly around the room. “I've come to collect you and take you there, as well. Why don't you pack an overnight bag while I go collect some of their things?” 

“Oh, no. I couldn't ask you to—” 

“You aren't asking me to,” he said simply. “Please, Mrs Malfoy. I don't want you to be alone in this big empty house any more than I'd want that for Draco.”

She eyed him for a moment. “You really do love him, don't you?” 

He felt his cheeks burn but held her eyes as he nodded. “Yes ma'am.”

With a warm smile, she nodded. “Who would have seen that coming?” she asked, then turned to the house elf. “Jinx, please help Mr Potter collect what he'll need from Draco's rooms. I'll be along, shortly.”

The little elf led the way again, and Harry followed, leaving Narcissa to her task. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	16. Chapter Fifteen

A week had passed since that day, and Draco still couldn't bring himself to be away from Scorpius for longer than it took to shower. He'd have to return to work soon, he knew. There was evidence to catalogue, his statement to give, and he still needed to collect Miranda Harris’ DNA and fingerprints for his database. 

Given the circumstances, however, Robards had agreed to give him whatever time he needed. Provided, of course, that it wasn't more than two weeks. 

Summer was nearing its end. Teddy was scheduled to start his first term at Hogwarts in two months and, according to Harry, so was “Lucas.” McGonagall’s reply had confirmed what they already knew; Lucas Harris was dead. 

That left the question, though, of who that boy was. The only name he'd given so far was Lucas. That was what Harris had called him, that was the only name he knew. 

Harry visited the boy daily, worrying over what would happen when he was well enough to leave St. Mungo’s. Meanwhile, he was searching every avenue he could think of to find his identity. 

“He has to be someone,” Harry said, one night while Pansy, Hermione, and Weasley were all sitting around the living room. No one said they were checking up on Draco but it was clear, regardless. “He didn't just pop out of nowhere. And there's no way he popped out of the Harrises. He looks nothing like any of them.”

“She could have kidnapped him,” Weasley suggested, gesturing with the neck of his beer bottle. Maybe he's a missing Muggle kid.”

“I don't think so,” Harry argued. “Some of what he's told me suggests that he's a wizard. Miranda wasn't in the house when we searched it that first time, and you saw the room. It was empty.” he paused, frowning as the gears turned in his head. “Not that he couldn't be Muggleborn, but that seems like an awfully big coincidence.”

“It would be,” Pansy and Hermione said, together. 

“What has she said?” Hermione asked. 

“She just keeps screaming about Lucas. And Harry.” Weasley winced as soon as he said it, turning to Harry. “Sorry mate.”

“It's okay, Ron. I know she blames me for what happened.”

“You do know it's shit though, right?” Pansy demanded. “You didn't send Death Eaters to her house, Voldemort did. 

Harry seemed taken aback, but nodded. “Yeah, I know. I couldn't save her son, or her husband. But I can still save this boy. I'm going to look into the possibility she kidnapped him.”

“Missing persons would be a good place to start,” Draco said, speaking for the first time since the conversation began. “If he was reported missing, his description would be listed. There might even be a photo of him.”

Harry smiled and dropped a hand to Draco's thigh. “Thank you. I'll start there. If he's ten years old, he must have been born during the war.”

“Like Ted,” Weasley said, staring at his beer. “Fuck.”

“You'll sort it out,” Hermione assured him, laying a hand on his cheek. “It's what you do.”

Since then, Harry had been looking. He settled on three names of missing children by the end of the week, all taken within seven years of the war. Harry said the last time anyone had seen this “Lucas” had been three or four years ago. 

Jacob Smith, Alexi Roark, and Thomas Harding. 

All three had brown hair and eyes, all were born within months of the battle of Hogwarts, and all were taken before they were seven. The thought turned Draco's stomach and he held Scorpius tighter whenever it crossed his mind. 

But they were running out of time. The boy would be released soon and, if they couldn't find his family, he'd be placed in an orphanage, a ward of the Ministry. Harry was loathe to allow that to happen, and Draco was with him on the matter. 

That boy had been through enough. 

Finally rising—Harry had left for work hours before—Draco gathered Scorpius close and headed down to the kitchen to find something to eat. He wasn't terribly hungry, but Harry would have his hide if he started skipping meals. 

When he padded through the door, Narcissa looked up from where she sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and the morning  _ Prophet _ . 

“Good morning, dear,” she said, lifting her chin for a kiss as he passed. 

“Good morning, Mother.”

“Master Draco, sir,” Jinx greeted him, setting his own cuppa on the table. “I is having breakfast ready in just a blink.”

“Oh. Thank you, Jinx.” Draco sat, secretly pleased he wouldn't have to release Scorpius to prepare breakfast. 

Harry had tried to tell Jinx she didn't have to work, but she wouldn't hear of it. And her presence in the kitchen seemed to please Kreacher, who hadn't shown his face in the months Draco had been coming and going from Grimmauld place, so he gave up trying rather quickly. 

They were silent throughout breakfast, except for Scorpius. He was already back to squealing happily as he flung bits of food across the table. Draco envied his ability to forget what had happened to him, but his energy brought a smile to his face and that was enough. 

Just as they were finishing up and Jinx was clearing the dishes, the kitchen fire flared to life, then green, and Harry rushed through. He looked around wildly for a moment, before hurrying across the room, a brilliant smile lighting his face. 

“We've found him, Draco!” he cried, pulling him to his feet and spinning him in delighted circles. “We've done it!” 

“That's wonderful, Harry,” Draco gasped, already a little dizzy. “Who is he?” 

He stopped spinning abruptly, his face falling a little. “Well, that's not the best news, actually. And I want to talk to you about it.”

Releasing him, Harry sat heavily at the table, scooting nervously to the edge of the chair. “I'm fairly certain our Lucas is Alexi Roark. He was taken when he was four.”

“That's really great, Harry. Have you told his family—” Harry frowned, confusion clouding his face. Draco wondered what he missed when he suddenly remembered. 

The case file for Roark had said he was kidnapped from— “Fuck. He's a war orphan.”

“Yes,” Harry said, nodding. “His parents were killed in the war when he barely a year. He went to live with relatives, a cousin they said, but the man was rather old and passed away shortly before he turned four. He's going to an orphanage, anyway. So I was thinking…”

He broke off, ducking his head, and Draco finally understood the nervousness. “You want to take him in, don't you?” 

“Think about it!” Harry said, his voice rising with excitement. “He's been through so much. And I can relate, you know? But he's a half blood wizard. He'll be starting school this year, so he'd only be here at the holidays anyway. And there's so much room in this house. Giving one up for a boy who needs a home is nothing.”

Draco lifted a hand to staunch the flow of words, shaking his head in confusion. “Harry, that all makes perfect sense, but why are you trying to convince me of it? It's your house.”

“Oh. Well, yes, I suppose it is, but you live here, too and— fuck,” he gasped when Draco's eyes widened. “Shit, you've been here a week and I forgot you don't live here.”

“Not officially, no,” Draco agreed, weakly. 

“Even so,” Harry went on, grabbing for Draco's hand. “I love you and I want to share my life with you. This kind of decision needs to be unanimous.”

“You want to—” There was a ringing in Draco's ears as he looked down into the earnest green of Harry's eyes. Was he suggesting—? Swallowing, he aimed for teasing, but the question had to be asked. “Are you asking me to marry you, Potter?” 

Harry's jaw dropped, his eyes going comically wide. “I— er, I suppose I am. Yes. And to raise a family with me. In essence.”

Laughing outright for the first time in more than a week, Draco threw his arms around Harry's shoulders while Scorpius squealed with unrelated delight and Narcissa brought a hand to her mouth, hiding the little smile as tears welled in her eyes. 

“So that's a—?”

“Yes, you prat,” Draco laughed, straddling Harry's knees and pressing their foreheads together. “Yes, I live here. Yes, I'll marry you. And, for fuck’s sake,  _ yes,  _ bring that boy home where we can keep him safe.”

The brilliant smile was back on Harry's face, and he stood again to start back up with the dizzying circles. Not for the last time, the kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place echoed with happy tears and laughter. 

-

For the hundredth time since it arrived two days before, I stared at the letter. I'd never gotten a letter before. The bright emerald ink winked up at me, reminding me of Harry's eyes. He'd come to visit me frequently while I was in St. Mungo’s and insisted I call him that. It still felt weird. 

Almost as weird as the letter. I hadn't opened it, I didn't dare. The Healers and nurses said it was for me, but the name was all wrong. I was Lucas Harris. Not the only one, of course, but one of them. 

As I stared, turning the envelope on my hands, a knock sounded at the door. When I looked up, it was opening and Harry was walking through, wearing the bright, warm smile I was still becoming accustomed to. I opened my mouth to greet him, but someone else was with him. 

Draco Malfoy walked in carrying his son. He was also smiling, but I still felt my heart race, my palms sweat. He'd never come to visit. Why was he here, now? 

“Hiya, mate,” Harry greeted, ruffling my hair like he always did.

“Hullo,” I murmured, ducking my head. 

“I've brought a visitor to see you,” he went on, as if I hadn't seen the man with my own eyes. “What have you got, there?” 

He held out his hand and I passed him the letter even though I was a bit afraid to let it go. I knew he would never keep it from me. Draco Malfoy leaned over his shoulder to read the address line and grinned. 

“Received your Hogwarts letter? That's great.”

“Brilliant,” Harry agreed, handing it back. “Would you like me to take you to Diagon Alley to get your supplies?” he asked as he settled into the chair beside my bed. 

“Better not,” I said. “It's a mistake. I'm a squib.”

“Are you, now?” Draco Malfoy asked. He sat beside Harry and looked at me expectantly. 

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Mother said so.”

Harry frowned, glancing at the other man before turning back to me and resting a hand on the bed. “That's actually why we're here, mate. We have something important to tell you.”

“Miranda Harris,” Draco Malfoy said, shifting the baby to sit on his lap. “She's not your mother. Not really.”

“What?” I asked, forgetting my fear of the man. “No, that's—” 

“Your mum and dad were called Julia and Peter Roark,” Harry continued. He lifted his hand and laid it on my knee. “They— they were killed during the war, just like Lucas and his father. Miranda took you from an orphanage when you were four years old.”

“Wh-why? Why would she do that?” I cried. I couldn't remember a time when Mother wasn't… well, Mother. I knew Harry wouldn't lie to me, but that didn't make understanding any easier. 

“The mind healers who evaluated her believe she took you because she thought she could replace her son,” Draco Malfoy said, a sad look in his eyes. “That also explains why she called you Lucas.”

“But—” 

“As it happens, the name on that letter is correct,” Draco went on, shifting Scorpius in his arms. “You are Alexi Roark.”

“And you're a wizard, Alexi,” Harry said with a grin. He leaned closer to Draco Malfoy and said, in a loud whisper, “I've always wanted to say that.”

Draco Malfoy snorted, shoving Harry away. “Shut up, Potter.” But he wore a smile that lighted his eyes as he gazed at Harry for a moment longer. 

“It's true, though.” Still grinning, Harry addressed me again. “Some of what you've told me—about what happened in that antique shop and at Miranda's house when Ron and I searched it—that stuff sounds a lot like accidental magic, to me. Which is perfectly natural for a wizard your age.”

Green flashed behind my eyes and I could hear Mother's shrieks, as clear as day. “You mean, I— I killed that—” 

“What? No!” Harry said, hurriedly. “No. That was Miranda. I mean when everything in the shop flew about the room.  _ That  _ was all you.”

I gasped, shrinking back against the pillow of my bed. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—” 

“No, no,” Harry laughed. “It's a good thing. All of those things were repaired, no harm done. But it means you have magic. And Hogwarts will help you learn how to use it.”

I tried to relax. That did sound exciting, but I didn't really know what to do with the information. “So… if Mother is—isn't my— Where will I go?” 

“Well,” Draco Malfoy said slowly. “That's another part of the reason we came. Harry?” 

Harry looked at me for a long minute before he spoke, almost nervously. “We spoke to the orphanage, Draco and I, and they're willing to— to let us take you home. If you want to, of course.”

I liked Harry a lot, but he didn't always make sense. “But who would be there?” I asked. “Will they let me live alone? I don't know if I can—” 

“Wait, wait,” Draco Malfoy chuckled. “Harry, you imbecile. You should be more clear, especially when speaking to a child.” He turned to me, then. “What he's trying to say is, we would like to take you home to live with us. If you would like that.”

Well, he was right. That was much clearer, but I was still confused. “You— you want me to live with you? After everything I did?”

Draco Malfoy frowned, his eyes hardening into walls of grey smoke. “Now you listen to me. You didn't  _ do  _ anything, Alexi. Miranda used you as a tool to commit crimes. You are not Miranda.”

“He's right, you know,” Harry said, drawing my attention back to him. “Everyone knows you weren't responsible for anything she did. We certainly know it.”

“So, you won't mind? If I live with—”

Harry sighed. “I think you're still misunderstanding, mate. We  _ want  _ you to live with us. We won't be mad if you don't want that, but this isn't about minding. We want to give you a home.”

My chest felt like it was expanding, a rush of happiness I hadn't felt for as long as I could remember flooded through me. I wanted to jump up, to hug them—even Draco Malfoy. But, under that, I felt a deep and foreboding sense of guilt. Miranda Harris was the only mother I'd ever known, how could I so readily accept living with these men? Conflicted, I simply nodded. 

“I do. I want that.”

Harry smiled, ruffling my hair again, and Draco Malfoy grinned. 

After that, we talked about Hogwarts some more. How we'd go shopping and I'd get my very own wand. And Draco Malfoy said I'd need some clothes, too. 

Throughout the whole conversation, I smiled. I don't know when I've ever smiled more. Somebody wanted me. I could only hope they'd keep right on wanting me but, for the time being, it was enough. 

-

Smiling, Harry took Draco's hand and swung it back and forth between them. In one arm, he held a babbling Scorpius and, on Draco's other side, Teddy bounced with excitement. 

“It's almost time!” he cried, looking at the clock on the wall above the door. “What's taking him so long?”

“Relax, Ted. We can be late.”

Even as he said so, though, the door of the little toilet in the corner of the hospital room swung open and Alexi came hesitantly into the room. His hair had been trimmed so that the array of lengths was more intentional, giving it a fluffy appearance as it curled outward at the ends. His bruises were long healed and he'd begun to fill out to a healthy weight. He was clad smartly in dark jeans, a tee shirt, and brand new trainers, but the best part of the look was undoubtedly the shy smile he wore. 

“Wow!” Teddy gasped in exaggerated awe. “You look great!” 

“You most certainly do,” Draco agreed, bending down to lay both hands on his shoulders when he stopped before them. “We're still going shopping, of course. You can choose whatever you want to wear, then.”

“That's right,” Harry agreed. “We just couldn't have you walk out of here in a dressing gown, could we?” 

Alexi shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Alright,” Draco said, straightening. “Who's ready for lunch?” 

“Me!” Teddy shouted while Alexi nodded, solemnly. Even Scorpius squirmed excitedly in Harry's arms. 

“Let's go, then. We've already signed your release papers, Alexi, so we're good to go.”

Those weren't the only papers they'd signed, Harry thought as they made their way through the corridors to the Floo banks. That morning, he and Draco had signed the first of the paperwork necessary to officially adopt Alexi. It had taken a month, during which the healers at St. Mungo’s were only too happy to keep treating him. 

On top of building his weight back up, he'd also begun regular sessions with a mind healer, the same who would interpret his memories of his time with Miranda for his testimony. Harry and Draco attended a session once a week to discuss the transition into their upcoming living arrangements and how to care for a boy who'd experienced so much abuse. 

All in all, they were hopeful for the upcoming month before Alexi left for Hogwarts. Even then, since they'd already discussed his circumstances with McGonagall to ensure he was treated properly there. 

When they reached the Floos, Draco went first, leading Teddy through. Harry, Alexi, and Scorpius followed close behind. On the other end, The Leaky Cauldron met them, loud and packed nearly to the brim. Harry looked down at Alexi, unsurprised to see him backing toward the fireplace they’d just stepped from.

“We won’t be here a minute, Al,” he said, bending down to be heard over the din. “Do you want to come with me to pick up our order, or would you rather wait outside with Draco and Teddy?”

The boy looked up, then around the pub nervously before squaring his shoulders. “I belong here,” he breathed so low Harry could only make out the words because he knew them so well by then. “I’ll come with you,” he said bravely, but slipped his hand through Harry’s, nonetheless.

Together, they made their way through the throng of people. Every time Alexi held tighter to his hand, Harry squeezed back to reassure him. Luckily, when they reached the bar, Tom had already seen them coming and sent Hannah back to retrieve their order.

“Well now, Mr Potter,” Tom said with his trademark toothy grin. “Didn’t know you were already a family man.”

“Come now, Tom,” Harry laughed. He swept his gaze over the present portion of his growing family, smiling fondly. “I’ve always been a family man.”

Tom laughed heartily and Alexi cast a sidelong glance up at Harry. Hopefully, he would come to see them as his family, too. Hannah appeared with a stack of boxes and passed them to Harry. He thanked her, then charmed the stack to float along behind them and started back toward the door.

Outside, Draco and Teddy were playing a finding game, looking for red robes among the passers-by—last weekend, it had been blue, and the next was likely to be green. He still wasn’t sure which house he’d prefer.

“Ready to go?” Harry asked. His breath caught when they turned as one to face him, twin grins stretched wide over their faces.

“It’s about time. What kept you, Potter?” Draco asked, leaning in for a kiss. When he pulled away, he trailed a finger along Scorpius’ cheek and dropped a hand to Alexi’s shoulder, smiling down at him.

“Don’t you start. You were two seconds ahead of me. You know full well they’re bloody packed.”

Draco laughed, plucking the takeaway boxes out of the air and taking Teddy’s hand as he giggled at them. “Whatever you say. Let’s go, I’m starving.”

Without another word, he Disapparated, leaving Harry rolling his eyes in his wake. 

“Do you love Draco?” Alexi asked, startling Harry.

“You know,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I really do.”

“Then why do you fight all the time?”

“Shit,” Harry muttered. “Well…” he began, uncertain of how to answer. “I suppose it’s because we’re not really fighting. We used to fight all the time, when we were kids. Sometimes even with magic.” Not for the first time, Harry thought of the spell Draco used to attack Harris. Remembered the time Harry had used it against him. “What we do now is called teasing. Bickering, if you like.

“What’s that?”

“Bickering?” Harry took a deep breath to give himself a moment. Alexi was a bright, curious child and he had to keep reminding himself that he’d missed out on an entire primary education. “Bickering is like arguing, except no one is angry. Draco and I enjoy arguing, even though we love each other.”

“Oh. Okay.”

And that was that. There was a lot Alexi would have to overcome, but he was still young enough to accept new information and integrate it into his understanding of the world. As Harry carried him through the darkness of Apparition, he told himself that Alexi was going to be just fine, if he and Draco had anything to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I don't know if I'll have internet tomorrow, so here's the epilogue today 😁

We all know how a good story ends. The hero saves the day, gets the girl, the family. Well, Draco may have saved the day, but Harry was no girl. And I’m the one who got a family.

The noise and light are what I remember most of King’s Cross Station on that cool autumn morning. My first day as a Hogwarts student. Other students and their parents bustled around, carting trunks and cages, some already donning their school uniforms. And, as a magnificent backdrop to the activity of Platform 9 ¾, the enormous Hogwarts Express outshone it, gleaming a deep burgundy and belching steam into sky above. 

Not for the first time since Harry and Draco told me they wanted to take me home, to give me a home, I stared in awe at the little family. My family. 

Scorpius squealed in delight, reaching for Harry from Draco's arms. The two men laughed, using their proximity as Draco passed him over, for an excuse to share a kiss that only became more beautiful every time I saw it. At my side, finally taller than me—though not by much—Teddy danced excitedly. 

“I can't wait, Alexi! This is going to be great! We’ll both be sorted into Ravenclaw and we’ll do everything together!”

I nodded, still a bit overwhelmed by Teddy’s neverending enthusiasm. Harry and Draco got a sad look in their eyes, though they smiled brightly. They were worried about me, I knew. I still wasn't eating much and I didn't speak often. But I loved them—I still do—so I smiled as big as I could, nodding emphatically. 

“Maybe we’ll get to be on the Quidditch team like Harry was when he was a first year!”

Draco snorted. “Unlikely, Ted. Gryffindor was in dire straits before Harry showed up. I doubt that kind of thing will happen again.”

I was still a bit afraid of Draco, but I knew by then how much he liked arguing, so I spoke up. Albeit, softly. “It could happen,” I said. “Teddy’s a really good flier.” And everyone beamed at me. Ridiculously pleased, I ducked my head as my cheeks heated. 

“Fair point,” Draco conceded, putting his hand on my shoulder. Just then, the engine blasted its horn, announcing their time for goodbyes was coming to an end. “Alright, boys, time to be off.” Bending, he wrapped Teddy in a firm embrace, then ruffled his blue hair and turned to me. “It's going to be okay. You can owl us anytime, and we'll come and collect you,” he said as his long arms came around me. 

My shoulders relaxed, almost of their own accord, but then he was pulling away. Without a thought, I threw my arms around his waist, causing him to stumble. But he chuckled and laid a hand on my head. 

“We're here for you, Alexi,” Harry promised, kneeling beside me. Scorpius babbled, reaching out toward me and I took his hand, gently. 

Nodding, I turned to hug Harry, too, before looking back to Teddy. He smiled at me and took my hand, and we raced across the platform together. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Remember, kudos are love and comments validate my existence! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Shelter in the Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19102123) by [SzonKlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SzonKlin/pseuds/SzonKlin)




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